
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



QDD0E5fi5303 



LEG TUEES 



BEAD TO THE 



SENIORS IN HARVARD COLLEGE. 



EDWARD T. CHANNING, 

LATE BOYLSTON PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND OKATOET, 



rwyU. [^ 



BOSTON: 
TICKNOR AND FIELDS 

M DCCC liYI. 




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x- 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by 

Henrietta A. S. Channing, 

In the Clerk's Ofiace of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



CAMBRIDGE: 
STBEEOTTPED ANi) PRINTED BY THURSTOH AND TOKRY. 



CONTENTS 



Pago 

PREFACE .....,..,. V 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. BY K. H. DANA, JR. . , vii 

THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES 1 

GENERAL VIEW OP RHETORIC 26 

ELOCUTION, A STUDY • . 46 

DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY 60 

DELIBERATIVE ORATORY .72 

JUDICIAL ORATORY. THE PROFESSION AND TRIBUNAL . 90 

JUDICIAL ORATORY 98 

THE ADVOCATE AND THE DEBATER ..... 113 

ELOQUENCE OP THE PULPIT. REASONS FOR PREACHING . 120 
ELOQUENCE OP THE PULPIT. THE PREACHER AND HIS . 

AUDIENCE 133 

ELOQUENCE OP THE PULPIT. THE PREACHER'S RESOURCES 143 

LITERARY TRIBUNALS 149 

FORMS OP CRITICISM . 166 

A writer's PREPARATION 185 

HABITS OP READING 202 

A writer's habits 208 

THE STUDY OP OUR OWN LANGUAGE .... 218 

CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSION AND OP THOUGHT . . . 233 

USING WORDS FOR ORNAMENT 246 

PERMANENT LITERARY FAME 259 



[iii] 



PREFACE 



When- Bishop Manningliam was requested to pub- 
lisli in a volume the sermons which he had printed 
separately at different times, he said to his son, 
" Prithee, Tom, let them alone ; they lie quiet now ; 
put them together and they will fight." The danger 
of inconsistency may seem very small, when the pa- 
pers about to be published are still in manuscript. 
Though written at far distant periods, and during a 
time of life when the author's temper and opinions are 
peculiarly liable to change, yet, on a cool revision, he 
can omit what he no longer holds, and make peace 
between passages which, through inadvertence, are 
found to be somewhat at variance. I hope that, in 
preparing the following lectures for the press, I have 
made a proper use of my opportunity, and that the pas- 
sages introduced upon the revision have not let in new 
and unobserved elements of discord. Very often, in- 
consistency may be more in the tone than in the mat- 
ter, and not so much owing to a change in our views, 
as to the temptation to speak more strenuously of the 



VI PREFACE. 

same or of related topics, at one time than at another. 
If we could always remember ourselves, we should be. 
pretty safe. 

I have not attempted a systematic view of rhetoric, 
either in compliance with the statutes of the professor- 
ship, or according to any idea of my own. So obvious 
will this be, that the lectures may often be more justly 
regarded as essays upon subjects suggested by rhetoric 
than as orderly treatises upon its proper topics. As I 
have taken but a part of the course for publication, 
and, for convenience, have sometimes divided a lecture 
according to the prominent topics, the separate articles 
will probably appear still more independent of each 
other and even of the art which they ought ever to 
have kept in sight. 

In preparing this volume for the press, I see, — per- 
haps more distinctly than ever before, — that I have 
been travelling, in my own way, over old ground. 
How much I am indebted to others, I do not know; 
and probably the most careful notes of my reading for 
many years would not give an adequate account of my 
obligations. I have acknowledged those which I re- 
membered, and must content myself with a general 
expression of gratitude for such as I have forgotten ot 
was never aware of. 

Cambridge, June 10, 1852. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE 



Edward Tyrrel Channing was born in New- 
port, in Rhode Island, December 12, 1790. The 
biography of his elder brother, William Ellery 
Channing, has made all acquainted with the his- 
tory of his family. Coming from Dorsetshire in 
England, they resided for several generations in 
Newport, and filled highly respectable positions 
in professional and commercial life. His father, 
after holding the offices of District Attorney of 
the United States, and Attorney General of the 
State, died young, leaving a family of nine child- 
ren. The biography to which we have referred 
has also shown us the virtues and strength of 
mind of his mother, who was a daughter of 
William Ellery. The eldest brother, Francis 
Dana Channing, died young, like his father, 
while rapidly advancing in reputation at the 
Boston bar. The second brother in age, and 
third in order of death, was the celebrated divine. 
The eldest now surviving is the distinguished 

[vii] 



VUl BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. 

physician and late professor in the Medical Col- 
lege of Harvard University. 

Edward entered Harvard University in 1804, 
at the age of thirteen. He was not graduated in 
course, as he was involved in the famous rebel- 
lion of 1807, one of the few in which the stu- 
dents seem, on the whole, not to have been in 
the wrong. But he received his degree a few 
years afterwards, and, in 1851, the further degree 
of Doctor of Laws. On leaving college, he 
studied law with his elder brother, and was ad- 
mitted to the Boston bar. 

He read law philosophically and carefully, car- 
rying along with his stricter professional studies, 
a course of reading in history and in the Greek 
and Roman classics. It was thought by his 
friends that he would ripen into a learned and 
accomplished jurist, as his mind was judicial, 
and his scholarship much above that of most of 
his contemporaries at the bar. But his paramount 
tastes were literary ; and with a circle of friends, 
nearly all of whom have since become known to 
the public, he devoted himself chiefly to literary 
pursuits. 

The North American Review, the earliest per- 
manent periodical in America, had its origin 
in a club of young men who, in the winter of 
1814-15, projected a bi-monthly magazine, to be 
called the New England Magazine and Review. 
The first mover in this undertaking was Mr. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. IX 

Willard Phillips, then a tutor at Cambridge, 
and since judge of Probate, and well known as 
the author of the learned treatises on Insurance 
and Patents. Mr. Phillips was to be the editor, 
and committees were to be appointed for the 
different departments, who were to inspect and 
pass upon the contributions. The committee on 
politics was to be composed of George Cabot, 
James Lloyd, John Lowell, Josiah Quincy, and 
others. President Kirkland was particularly 
active and earnest in favor of the undertaking. 
The first meeting was attended by seven per- 
sons, of whom, in a memorandum found among 
his papers, Mr. Channing could only recollect 
besides himself, President Kirkland, Richard H. 
Dana and Mr. Phillips. The results of this meet- 
ing were given by Mr. Channing in a letter to 
his friend, Mr. George Ticknor, then at Wash- 
ington, dated December 10, 1814, from whom 
the club had been promised an article upon 
Aristophanes, for their first number. 

At this time, however, Mr. "William Tudor, 
since known as author of the life of James Otis, 
returned from Europe, with a plan for publishing 
a periodical. The field not being wide enough 
for two, an amicable arrangement was made, by 
which the club discontinued their proceedings, 
which had gone as far as the issuing of circulars, 
the procuring of some subscribers, and a contract 
with publishers, and transferred their labors and 



X BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. 

the good- will of their projected magazine to Mr. 
Tudor; and in May 1815, Mr. Tudor issued the 
first number of the North American Review. 
Mr. Tudor edited it for two years, when, in 
1817, it passed into the hands of a club, com- 
posed of the members of the original club and a 
few others, among whom were Jared Sparks, 
since the distinguished historian, then a tutor in 
Cambridge, John Gallison, William Powell Ma- 
son, and Nathan Hale. Mr. Sparks edited it for 
one year, when the editorship was undertaken 
by Mr. Channing, assisted by his cousin, Richard 
H. Dana, both being under the age of thirty. 
The club now held weekly meetings for reading 
and deciding upon communications, and for 
selecting and distributing subjects to be written 
upon. These, though in some part business 
meetings, were kept up with much interest, 
vivacity and harmony ; the literary friends of the 
associates often attended, and the zeal and spirit 
of the association became infused into the Re- 
view. With Mr. Channing's papers, we find 
his correspondence relating to the Review, in- 
cluding several letters of considerable interest. 
Among these, are letters from Mr. Bryant, with 
criticisms and suggestions on literary subjects, 
and from Mr. Verplanck and Chancellor Kent 
on matters of law and history. 

In the autumn of 1819, at the age of twenty- 
eight, Mr. Channing was appointed Boylston 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. XI 

Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory, at Cam- 
bridge. This terminated his editorship of the 
Review, which was transferred to Mr. Edward 
Everett, the proprietorship still remaining in the 
association. 

The account of this literary undertaking is 
carried into these details, because it is thought 
to be an important chapter in the history of the 
periodical literature of America. 

Mr. Channing held the office of Professor of 
Rhetoric and Oratory for thirty-two years. The 
students who enjoyed the privilege of his instruc- 
tion, now to be numbered by thousands rather 
than by hundreds, in all parts of our land, and in 
all occupations, unite in grateful acknowledg- 
ment of their obligations to him. His reputation 
for pure style, and for exquisite taste and judg- 
ment in English literature, has been long estab- 
lished ; and all who have been his pupils know 
how faithfully and successfully he brought these 
gifts and acquirements to bear upon the duties 
of his office. They acknowledge, too, his dig- 
nity, justice and impartiality, and his insight into 
character. They recognize, almost daily, the 
benefits of his criticisms in composition and elo- 
cution. But these constitute by no means the 
sum of their obligations. He was their adviser 
and guide in their reading : that which developes 
the minds and so much forms the tastes and in- 
fluences the opinions of the young. Not merely 



XU BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. 

by his course of lectures, and by private inter- 
views, but also in the voluntary reading classes 
that met at his study, he drew them from the 
fascinations of the superficial, brilliant favor- 
ites of the day, to the writers of deep thought, 
elevated sentiments and pure style. During the 
term of his professorship, he outlived many fash- 
ions of opinion and taste in literature and elocu- 
tion. For thirty years and more, he stood a 
breakwater against the tides and cmTents of 
false and misleading fashions; and under that lee, 
in calmer airs, and in smoother but not less deep 
waters, the student was protected in his feebler 
and less skilful early efforts. Many will recall 
the quiet, keen, epigrammatic satire, that he used 
so sparingly and so well, with which he gave a 
death wound to the popularity of some ill- 
deserving favorite in oratory or poetry. Yet, 
though severe in his tastes, he was, on the whole, 
a wide liker. He was not fond of fault finding. 
He was no martinet. Wherever he saw sin- 
cerity, earnestness and power, no man made 
larger allowances for faults. So it was that, 
although decided in his convictions and exact in 
his tastes, yet, as is well known to his friends, 
those young men who early espoused and have 
since distinguished themselves in courses of 
doctrine and style most distasteful to him, still 
preserved intimate relations with him in college, 
and cordial friendships in after life. Thus he 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. XUl 

escaped the condition in which too many nice 
critics find themselves, a condition marked rather 
by distastes than by tastes, and powerless for 
good influence over the tempers and feelings of 
the yomig. He was also much aided by his 
humor and wit, qualities which so liberalize and 
make genial the mind. In the exercise of these 
gifts he was choice and reserved, but as his 
humor was of that kind which springs from and 
attaches itself to what is general in human 
nature, it was widely received "and well remem- 
bered. 

It is in no spirit of disparagement to other in- 
stitutions that we refer to the fact, that for the 
last quarter of a century Cambridge has been 
distinguished for the purity and elegance of its 
style in composition and elocution. And it is no 
injustice to other teachers there, indeed it is but 
uttering their common voice when we add that 
the credit of this is chiefly due to Mr. Channing. 
The department of themes, forensics and elocu- 
tion has not usually, in our colleges, held a high 
position, compared with the other departments, as 
respects the determining of academic rank, and 
the attention to it has been less exact and obliga- 
tory. But Mr. Channing carried his department 
forward until its relative influence was so great 
that excellence in it became essential to honors 
and high rank, and neglect of it incompatible 
with continuance in college at all. Themes, 



XIV BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. 

forensics and declamations became frequent, and 
distinction in this department more coveted than 
in any other. 

If it be said in offset to this commendation, as 
has sometimes been suggested, that Cambridge 
has been less distinguished for boldness, idiosyn- 
cracies and vigor, waiving the question of the 
justice of the suggestion, we may reply that if 
true, or so far as it be true, this is not to be at- 
tributed to the department of rhetoric and belles- 
lettres, but rather to the classes of society from 
which the Cambridge students are chiefly drawn, 
and to the uniform set and drift of opinion in 
matters literary, political and rehgious, which 
has so long marked the highly cultivated, but 
small and rather removed society of which the 
university and neighboring city have been the 
centre. It may also be treated as one of the 
compensations which must always be made for 
the advantages of long established, reposing and 
highly educated communities. 

Mr. Channing was a good classical scholar, 
and at one time made a particularly careful 
study of the Greek and Latin orators, and con- 
tinued to the last to read a few of the poets, and 
the De Ofiiciis and other essays of Cicero. But, 
his reading lay chiefly in the works of his own 
tongue. It is needless to say that he was a 
thoughtful student of Shakspeare, Milton and 
Spenser, and a familiar reader of the prose 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. XV 

writers of Queen Anne's time, and of Burke, 
Johnson, Goldsmith, Fielding, Richardson and 
Scott. All this, is of course. He was also a 
student of Chaucer and the earliest English 
wi'iters, and. of the old dramatists, and a lover 
of the unique and quaint, the novelists and 
humorists of all periods. The theologians, too, 
Barrow, Taylor and South, were the friends of 
his more serious leisure, which they shared with 
Young, Cowper and Bunyan. Of the writers 
of the Regency and since, while he yielded most 
perhaps to the charm of Scott, yet he was 
among the earliest to recognize the genius and 
influences, in their various characters, of Words- 
worth, Coleridge, Byron, Southey, Campbell and 
Lamb. With our own literature, he had grown 
up. Irving, Cooper, Bryant, and JNiiss Sedgwick, 
were his contemporaries ; wliile Longfellow, and 
our historians, have gained their reputations 
since he came to maturity. In the productions 
of England at the present time, he saw so much 
of vicious style, and of questionable usefulness 
of thought, that he suffered them mostly to 
glide by him ; but to the humor and pathos of 
Dickens, with all his defects, he was fully alive. 
Like most men, he passed through his period 
of metaphysical inquiry, and during that time he 
made careful study of the different schools, and 
knew well how the leading minds had treated 
the great problems of life. The result appears to 



XVI BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. 

have been a preference for the philosophy of 
Reid, from, whose style of thought he seemed 
to receive peculiar satisfaction. 

In the department of oratory, Mr. Channing 
exerted an excellent influence upon the students. 
Respect for his judgment, and a wholesome fear 
of his satire, kept them from indulgence in that 
captivating, but eventually palling oratory, often 
so seductive to the young, and led them to the 
selection of passages from the poets and prose 
writers, the statesmen and advocates, whose rep- 
utations have been tested by time. He was not 
himself an orator. But there was in his public 
delivery, though neither impassioned nor exactly 
graceful, something which produced the unmis- 
takable impression of a man of dignity and 
thought, a gentleman, speaking on a subject 
which he understood and felt. In more private 
familiar reading, of prose or verse, his style was 
nearly perfect. 

In politics, like most of his relatives and 
friends, who gathered in the family circles of 
Judge Dana at Cambridge, and of IVIr. Ellery 
at Newport, he was educated in the school of 
Washington, and adopted the opinions of the 
Federal party. Through life, he was conserva- 
tive, in the true and high sense of that term. 
But with much that sometimes takes to itself 
that name, being little else than the results of 
timidity, love of security and indifference to 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. XVU 

the rights and advancement of men, he had no 
more sympathy than with radicalism. He had 
strong instincts of liberty ; and his sympathies 
were always with the efforts for reasonable and 
responsible systems of freedom, at home or 
abroad. 

In 1826, Mr. Channing married his cousin, 
Henrietta A. S. Ellery, who survives him. From 
his appointment until he resigned his office in 
1851, his life was strictly academic. The an- 
nouncement of his resignation surprised his most 
intimate acquaintance. He had formed an early 
resolution to retire from office at the age of 
sixty, and although in full vigor, and with good 
reason to look forward to many years of health 
and ability, he refused to recall his resignation, 
resisting the most flattering and pressing re- 
quests from his brother officers and friends. 

Mr. Channing was a member and communi- 
cant of the church attached to the college chapel. 
In his theological opinions, he was a Unitarian, 
of the old school. He did not embrace the doc- 
trine of the Trinity, but he held high and rever- 
ent views of a personal Deity, of the nature and 
offices of the Saviour, and of revelation. Close 
as was his intimacy with the English classical 
authors, there was no book he knew so inti- 
mately and so nearly by heart, as the Holy 
Scriptures. In these he was a daily and devout 
reader. 



XVlll BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. 

Of his conversational talent, his friends need 
not be told, but it will be a pleasure to them to 
recall its charm. Natural, free, animating, hu- 
morous, and, when need be, using against any 
predominant folly or evil, that classic, restrained, 
but effective satire, of which he was a master, 
his style in conversation was as pure and choice 
as in writing. But it was not a finish or choice- 
ness which labored or embarrassed. It was as 
natural to him, as awkwardness and solecisms 
are to many. Not a professed story-teller, in 
characteristic anecdote or graphic description of 
persons, classes or neighborhoods, in portraying 
what was peculiar in character or manners, he 
was not easily to be surpassed. Sti]l, his best 
conversation was his most thoughtful. While 
no man more readily fell into, or more success- 
fully sustained the humorous, it was strictly his 
recreation and not his habit. His numer- 
ous friends and relatives, who enjoyed, at his 
house, the weekly Saturday dinner, at which, 
without special invitation, it was known they 
were always welcome, will take a sad pleasure 
in calling to mind, among the beauties and priv- 
ileges of their fives, the attractions that presided 
at either end of the table, dividing their attention 
and doubling their delight. 

As he was not a professed wit, so he was not 
a controversialist. His powers were best seen 
in the contemplative, in the pursuit of serious 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. XIX 

thought, or of beauty in nature, art or character. 
As a letter-writer, he was valued by his friends 
beyond price. Perhaps there was no field in 
which his talents played more naturally and fitly 
than in the light and shade, the affectionate, 
grave and humorous of friendly letter writing. 

Throughout life he retained the warmth of his 
affection for the young; and any one who had 
the claim upon him of blood, or of childhood or 
youth, must have been ill-deserving indeed not 
to have held an inner place in his heart. 

It has been remarked of him by one who 
knew him intimately from boyhood, that al- 
though society or intercourse with a single 
friend always pleased and animated him, and 
his powers particularly displayed themselves 
in conversation, yet he was as fond of being 
alone as if he had been unsocial and morose. 
His preference for solitude arose from the cheer- 
fulness and equanimity of his temper, and his 
great resources in himself for pleas m:e and im- 
provement. A change to society was not un- 
welcome to him, but the return to solitude was 
even more congenial. 

All that we have here attempted to portray 
has gone from us. But it will live in the recol- 
lections of his friends ; and when they too have 
passed away, it will still linger in the traditions 
of the university and city. 

Mr. Channing left no children, but a band of 



XX BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. 

most attached relatives, in every degree of con- 
sanguinity, and at all stages of life, followed his 
body to the grave. He lies by the side of his 
brother William, at Mount Auburn. 

Mr. Channing was not known as an author. 
That is to say, he published no book. But in 
his influence over the taste and judgment of the 
men who learned from him, it would not be easy 
to estimate his indirect contributions to the liter- 
ature and eloquence of America. He was, still, 
widely known and highly valued as an occa- 
sional contributor to the North American and 
other reviews. His life of his grandfather, Wil- 
liam Ellery, in Mr. Sparks's series, is one of the 
most exquisite of American biographies. 

In the leisure of the few years after his retire- 
ment from the professorship, he prepared, out of 
his course of lectures on English literature, the 
following series of Essays, for the press. They 
are published just as he left them, in the hope 
that they may be suggestive of pleasing memo- 
ries to his pupils, and may add a valuable contri- 
bution to the critical literature of our country. 

KICEDVRD H. DANA, Jr. 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 



Many subjects are suggested by the duties of 
my office, which would very properly give a 
direction to my thoughts in preparing an ad- 
dress for this occasion.* In making a selection, 
my attention has been drawn to circumstances 
in the state of society^ ivhich distinguish the 
modern from the ancient orator ; and a few con- 
siderations suggested by these may be suffi- 
ciently appropriate for my present purpose. I 
believe there has never been a serious doubt 
amongst us that there were ample opportunities 
and inducements, in the free states of these 
times, to call forth and perfect the highest quali- 
ties of oratory ; and as the art is thought by 
many to have fallen with the old commonwealths, 
it seems proper, in every attempt for its revival 
/ 

* This Address was delivered in the chapel of Harvard College, 
December 8, 1819, on the occasion of the writer's induction into 
the office of Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory. 

The Address was published at the time. In the re-print, 
there are omissions and other changes. 

1 [1] 



Z THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 

or improvement, to determine the kind of elo- 
quence which shoald be cultivated now. 

We look back to the best ages of those com- 
monwealths, when society, letters, and all the lib- 
eral arts were advanced the farthest, and we find 
eloquence the favorite and necessary accomplish- 
ment of all who were ambitious of rising in the 
world. It formed the earliest and most impor- 
tant part of education. The greatest care v.^as 
taken that the child should first acquire the lan- 
guage in the utmost purity, and that an inclina- 
tion to the forum should be amongst the earliest 
and most decided preferences. The rhetorician 
opened his school, and professors of oratory and 
wisdom became part of the household, to bring 
up the young scholar to the art, and impress 
him with a sense of its preeminence among 
liberal pursuits and popular accomplishments. 
The institutions of the state, the taste, wants, 
and habits of the people, gfll invited him to fit 
himself for command in the senate, the public 
meetings, the courts of justice, and even the 
field of -war, by the vast preparation of a perfect 
orator. Did he listen to the instructions of the 
moralist, the subtile disputes of the sophist, or 
the systems of the philosopher ; did he acquaint 
himself with the history or visit the scenes of 
great actions ; was he present at the debates of 
the fathers or the riots of the mob; — he was 
always arming himself for the fight of eloquence, 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 6 

or, as it was called, to approve himself a man- 
at-arms in the war of pleaders. He studied the 
temper of his countrymen to know how to man- 
age them. It was his office to produce a great 
effect on popular feeling ; to mingle in all the 
concerns of men, direct their counsels, share 
their pride, and even take advantage of their 
frailties. 

In the state of society at that time, we find 
abundant cause for this enormous power and 
importance of oratory. There was every temp- 
tation to be a great orator, and there were few 
restraints upon his abuse of the art. You re- 
member the general ignorance of the common 
people. The proud republican deemed it the 
part of loyalty to think as his countrymen 
thought. It was not for him to acquaint him- 
self with distant nations for the sake of correct- 
ing his false notions or enlarging his narrow 
views, by knowing what others thought of his 
coantry or of subjects that were most interesting 
to her. It was not for him to read and reflect, 
and thus instruct himself beforehand in the 
questions he might be called to consider. The 
popular orator was the great teacher then. The 
minds of his audience were to be formed, their 
passions moved and directed, their opinions 
regulated by his address. They were assembled 
without preparation, to decide according to the 
impulse they should receive at the time ; and 



4 THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 

they were to decide, too, upon questions that 
concerned the glory and safety of the state, 
which appealed to their most vindictive as well 
as most generous feelings, to ancient pride and 
friendships, and which opened to their imagi- 
nations boundless visions of national splendor 
and conquest. 

I have spoken of their ignorance ; — they 
wanted, indeed, that knowledge Avhich makes 
men think, and thus lends sobriety to passion. 
But they were far from being buried in the 
sluggishness of ignorance. A delicious climate 
and beautiful scenery, and unequalled works of 
art made no vain appeals to the warm hearts 
and imaginations of the whole people. A 
proud recollection of his fathers, a strong con- 
sciousness of personal honor in everything 
that distinguished his country, an identifica- 
tion, if I may so call it, of himself with the 
state, and a sublime self-devotion to its cause, 
al] these met in the lowest citizen of the an- 
cient republics, and made him worthy of his 
privilege. To the orator, he was a being formed 
of imagination and passion, — the powerful 
slave of those who kindled and flattered him. 
He called for excitement, violent excitement, 
and went to every subj(^.ct of the deepest public 
interest, and which his vote was to alTect, with 
a mind at the service of any one who would 
act upon it most powerfully. 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. O 

And what was the situation of this inflam- 
mable population ? They were not, as is the 
case in powerful states now, spread over a 
wide territory, and agitated, and influenced in 
their public conduct, by a great variety of 
interests. A diversity of pursuits and local 
interests did not split the commonwealth into 
parties, which kept each other in check, and 
led men to compare their opinions, and even 
learn something like moderation towards other 
nations, by the forbearance they were obliged 
to show each other. The ancient republics 
were, for the most part, of small extent. The 
efficient and governing population was crowded 
within the walls of a city, where every influence 
was exerted to nourish and perpetuate a strong 
national feeling. The whole state could assem- 
ble at public deliberations ; and the orator, who 
there carried his point, carried with him the 
commonwealth. 

The power of the ancient orator may be 
further seen in the freedom of discussion which 
was allowed him in courts of justice. He 
could rarely feel that he was there addressing 
men, who, in their severe love of truth and 
right, had shut their hearts against all appeals 
to passion, or dread of public indignation ; 
whose respect for themselves, not less than for 
justice, admonished the advocate that they 
considered persuasion but as one form of cor- 
1* 



6 THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 

ruption. He could rarely feel that a case was 
to be decided by solemn and respected pre- 
cedents, or absolute, written laws, which re- 
quired only a fair and luminous exposition, in 
order to ascertain and irrevocably settle the 
rights of parties. He was allowed to go be- 
yond the law, to talk to judges as men whom 
he could instruct and work upon, as men who 
could be made to feel some private interest in 
the question or the parties, and regard the 
merits of a case merely as it was presented by 
the advocate or affected by accidental circum- 
stances, and not in the consequences of their 
decision upon the lasting security and dignity 
of the state. We find the orator, therefore, as 
powerful in the courts of justice as anywhere 
else ; — not merely by the admirable arguments 
which he prepared for posterity, but also by 
appealing to the selfish interests, the antipa- 
thies and friendships, the honorable or unworthy 
feelings, of those who were sitting in judgment 
upon individual rights. 

Once more, we may account for the power 
of the ancient orator, from the effects of the 
false estimates which prevailed on the subject 
of national grandeur and happiness. Nothing 
was sooner upon the lips of the old republican, 
than his love of freedom and of his country. 
But what were liberty and patriotism then ? 
Did they show themselves in a love of social 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 7 

order and temperate government, and in a 
livelier jealousy of a domestic usurper than of 
a foreign rival ? Did they lead the citizen to 
valae the comforts of home, the substantial im- 
provements and ornaments of life, the solid 
institutions of a deliberate and virtuous com- 
monwealth, infinitely more than his sway over 
other nations, that were too distant even to 
share his blessings, much less endanger his 
security ? No — through all the splendor which 
genius has thrown over the old commonwealths, 
we can easily discern that the spirit of their 
governments was thoroughly warlike, that their 
love of freedom was another name for ferocious 
lawlessness, and that their love of country 
cloaked a boundless ambition of power. He 
was the favorite who could swell the empire, 
multiply its resources, crowd the streets with 
trophies and captives, and make the world it- 
self the prison-house of one master. 

This was not to be effected by the silent 
management of a, despot, with hired troops and 
forced revenues. The whole people breathed 
this aspiring spirit in the days of their highest 
glory and best freedom. They had no rights, 
no privileges, no enjoyments, which they were 
not perfectly willing to trust to the chances of 
an aggrandizing war, and of the domestic tur- 
bulence and faqtions which grew out of their 
passion for war. Society was unsettled and 



8 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 



irregular throughout, and seemed to be a com- 
bination for extending power, rather than for 
establishing a prosperous security. Here, then, 
was room for the orator to pamper the pride of 
conquerors, or rouse the courage of the defeated 
by making their shame imbitter their hate. 
National vanity, national ambition, were the 
principles he was perpetually called on to ad- 
dress. Were there evils in the state which re- 
quired sober and thorough reform? The orator 
could draw the attention of the discontented to 
some foreign enterprise, or fix it upon a victim 
at home, and tempt the rabble to waste their 
irritation upon an unpopular puplic benefactor, 
or upon some harmless neighbor whose liberty 
gave offence. Were there factions in the state 
which threatened its safety ? The orator was 
at hand to aid the designing or rescue his 
country. Was the invader approaching in an 
hour of security or despair? The orator was 
called on to form alliances, negotiate with the 
enemy, breathe the spirit of resistance into his 
countrymen, and sometimes to waste the noblest 
strains of human eloquence over the last strug- 
gles of ill-adjusted and ill-guarded freedom. 
The perpetual recurrence of dangers to indi- 
viduals or the nation, against which there was 
no sufficient guard in well-administered laws 
and a wise, pacific policy, put their safety very 
much into the hands of the influential orator, by 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. \) 

offering him constant opportunities and temp- 
tations for the worthiest or most fatal use of his 
powers. 

It was under these and other favorable circum- 
stances, that oratory acquired such popularity 
and preeminence in the ancient commonwealths. 
It was not merely a splendid accomplishment, 
but an important instrument in the hands of 
the most virtuous and most aspiring citizen. It 
connected him intimately with his countrymen, 
their private interests, their public influence ; it 
gave power and secured it to those who were 
ambitious of important station, civil or military, 
in the republic; it found opportunities for ex- 
hibiting itself everywhere ; the very language 
seemed to be formed for the public spealter ; 
while the state of society, the popular cast of 
the existing institutions, invited him to carry his 
art to the utmost, to put no restraints upon 
himself which could make victory doubtful or 
incomplete, to produce always the strongest 
possible excitement, and to carry his point by 
appealing to any principle of human nature 
which would aid him, without feeling any re- 
sponsibility, in the exercise of his tremendous 
power, as to the permanently bad influence of 
the abuses of his art. 

We cannot wonder, then, that ancient oratory 
has been regarded as a complete exhibition of all 
that is excellent and mischievous in public speak- 



10 THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 

ing. We cannot wonder that an employment so 
honorable and popular in active life, should have 
been reduced to an art of most finished beauty 
and practical application, and systematically ex- 
plained and recommended in rhetorical treatises. 
We cannot wonder that these treatises are so 
perfect, when it is remembered that the rhetori- 
cian had the orator before him, and saw not 
only the effect of his eloquence, but the ways in 
which it was produced, — all the springs of ac- 
tion touched and set in motion, the prejudices 
of men humored or overpowered, their imagina- 
tions kept in ceaseless activity, their passions 
turned every way at the will of the orator. We 
look to the ancient rhetoricians for the modes in 
which a public speaker is to influence the will 
of his hearer and command a popular assem- 
bly ; remembering, however, that the rules they 
have left us are to be applied now with a wise 
regard to the altered condition of society. We 
study the ancient orators, not merely as useful 
in rhetorical instruction, but also as occupying 
an important place in literature, affording ex- 
amples of great and finished men in active and 
political life, enabling us to understand more 
thoroughly the history and character of the 
people, and thus enlarging our views of human 
nature. 

But oratory, now, is said to be almost a lost 
art. We hear constantly how it has fallen from 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 11 

its old supremacy. You look at the few free states 
of modern times, and find no schools of rhetoric, 
crowded with the young and ambitious, who 
are preparing for active life and future grandeur 
by their accomplishments in eloquence. Is this 
so, because we have learned to despise our mas- 
ters ? Has their literature lost its hold upon 
our affections and veneration ? Do we throw 
away their poetry and their eloquence, as the 
worthless ornaments of a voluptuous and decay- 
ing people ? There never was a time when 
they were held in juster veneration than at this 
day, — a veneration that could be more grateful 
to those who inspired it. There never was a 
time when the disposition was stronger to make 
classical literature practically useful ; to take it 
from the sophist, the disputant, the overloaded, 
slumbering scholar, and place it in the hands 
of the philosopher, the soldier, the physician, 
the divine, the jurist, and the statesman. It is the 
spirit of the age to turn everything to account, 
and to let no good learning remain idle. How 
is it that eloquence has lost ground ? There 
are riot more who seriously deny its uses now, 
than there were in the ancient states. Not a 
day passes without putting it in our power to 
exert some profitable influence by speech, over 
the will, judgments, and actions of others. 
There are popular governments on the earth 
now, where ambition and patriotism and the 



12 THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 

free exjDression of our opinions are yet coun- 
tenanced and rewarded, and where honor and 
usefuhiess follow influence as surely as they did 
in the age of Philip or of Csesar. Besides all this, 
there are few topics more popular amongst us 
than the greatness of ancient orators, and scarce- 
ly anything in ancient literature is more valued, 
or more confidently recommended to the young, 
I than the orations and rhetorical writings. 
.- I It is indeed true that v/e have no schools of 
rhetoric, in which the whole education of a 
young man is directed with a close regard to 
his becoming a finished orator. The style of 
speaking which was irresistible in an ancient as- 
sembly, and the acquisition of which required 
the labor of years, might now be despised, even 
if it could be perfectly acquired. And it must 
also be confessed, that too little attention is paid 
to the cultivation of that kind of eloquence, 
which would now be most successful. Still, 
I think it unquestionable, that the oratory of 
modern free countries is, in character, as pre- 
cisely formed by and suited to our state of 
society, as that of the ancients was accommo- 
dated to theirs ; and that it would be scarcely 
less ridiculous to lament over the decline of 
their oratory amongst us, than it would be to 
lament over the decline of good government, 
morals, and philosophy since the days of the 
triumvirate. 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 13 

The object of eloquence is always the same, 

— to bring men, by whatever modes of address, 
/to our way of thinking, and thus make them act 

^ according to our wishes. Whatever society 
wants for this purpose, it will have. If the 
ancient oratory were in demand now, it would 
awake from the sleep of two thousand years 
without the aid of the rhetorician. If the world 
had languished and gone backward for want of 
it, there would be some reason to complain at our 
suffering such a means of improvement to lie 
unused. But we know that it is from the very 
improvements of the age, the stable foundation 
and ample protection of government, the general 
diffusion of knowledge and of a spirit of inquiry, 

— it is from the prevailing disposition of free 
countries, now, to make the security of individ- 
uals and of the state rest on laws and institu- 
tions, and not on popular caprice or the power 
of anyone man, — it is from these circumstances 
that we are to account for what is reproachfully 
called the temperate and inefficient character of 
modern eloquence ; and every judicious attempt 
for the improvement of the art will proceed on a 
thorough knowledge of these circumstances and 
a careful regard to them. 

Strange as it may seem to us, after hearing 

so much lofty declamation about the power of 

great speakers, whom nations listened to and 

obeyed, it is nevertheless true, that the orator 

2 



14 THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 

is the creature of the circumstances in which he 
is placed. He is formed by the same influences 
that form his neighbors; he must fall in with 
their taste, accommodate himself to their wants, 
and consult their prejudices and general tone 
and habits of thinking. It is perfectly visionary 
to suppose, as some have done, that a few great 
men, by taking advantage of public enthusiasm, 
during the stormy periods of a free government, 
might effect an entire revolution in eloquence, 
and revive it in its ancient spirit and power 
Such a revolution might be forwarded by their 
skilful exertions, but it could only be wrought 
by those secret and slowly operating causes 
which change entirely the face of society, the 
character and, in some degree, the occupations 
of a whole people. At present, however, we 
think it one of the happiest, and we trust most 
permanent distinctions between our state of 
society and the ancient — and the effect of this 
distinction is very observable in modern elo- 
quence — that the power of individuals is les- 
sened ; we do not encourage any man to aspire 
after an overwhelming greatness and sway. 

When we read the history of the most demo- 
cratical states of antiquity, we are constantly 
struck with the controlling influence of a few 
leading men, who appear to produce every 
change, however tremendous, by some vast and 
unexpected efforts, either of headlong violence 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 15 

or hidden contrivance. There is little apparent 
connection between the successive changes. 
They seem to result from individual ambition 
and energy, acting independently for the advance- 
ment of one man. Revolutions, tumults, vast 
military preparations, excited and directed by a 
few, appear to be the main business of life. 
The orator, the commander, his elevation and 
fall, these are the important incidents and per- 
sonages that are constantly thrust upon our 
notice ; we are always looking at a few promi- 
nent men and their extraordinary deeds. But 
when you look at society now, you see every- 
where a disposition to place the security of na- 
tions and of every individual on the broad 
foundation of laws and institutions, and to 
make it the interest of the highest as well as 
humblest citizen to respect and trust in them. 
"We never need great men now to take the place 
of laws and institutions, but merely to stand by 
them and see that they are unobstructed and 
unimpaired. A great man is perpetually taught 
now that the world can do without him ; that 
in all his attempts to be useful, he is rather to 
cooperate with a thousand others than become 
the master of any one. 

Instead of feeling humbled at this, he is proud 
and grateful that his lot is cast among equals ; 
that his country rests on better supports than 
his life or character ; and that those who would 



16 THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 

advance her glory and happiness, or effect any 
change whatever, cannot expect to do it by 
sudden and independent exertions of great 
power, by taking the state into their own hands, 
and becoming at once the mind, the voice, and 
the arm of a whole people, but only by an open, 
well-approved influence on public opinion, and 
a judicious concert w^ith others, who are jealous 
of their own powers and rights, and not to be 
cheated or forced out of them. Great men are 
still found in free nations, and have enough to 
fill their ambition, though it is kept in subordi- 
nation to the solid good of a country. And 
what has been the effect of this state of things 
upon the orator ? He has not escaped the re- 
straints that are thus laid on individual power, 
nor the circumstances that thus lessen individual 
importance. He can no longer be a despot, 
either to save freedom or destroy it. He is not 
the important personage he once was. He is 
fortunately less able to do harm, and less needed 
to do good. 

But his consideration and power are not 
diminished merely because society is now un- 
der better regulation and more perfect security 
than it was formerly. The general diffusion of 
knowledge has had the same effect. We have 
now many other and more quiet ways of form- 
ing and expressing public sentiment, than pub- 
lic discussion in popular assemblies. Opinions 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 17 

are constantly coming to us from other men 
and all parts of the world, through many 
channels, and we are thus enabled to instruct 
ourselves, and to think liberally and indepen- 
dently on all subjects, and especially on the 
opinions that are most current at home, and 
which the ancient orator might have appealed 
to with unresisted and terrible power. In the 
ancient republics, the orator might control the 
audience, but now we see the audience con- 
trolling him. 

A modern debate is not a contest between a 
few leading men for a triumph over each other 
and an ignorant multitade ; the orator himself 
is but one of the multitude, deliberating with 
them upon common interests, which are well 
understood and valued by all. He does not 
come to a raw, unprepared audience, brought 
together to receive opinions for the first time, 
from him, upon questions they are to decide, 
and to give themselves up rashly to any one 
who will flatter their weakness, consult their 
prejudices, or minister to their taste or passions. 
They are not assembled to be the subjects 
upon which he may try the power of his 
eloquence, but to see what eloquence can do 
for the question. The subject is more thought 
of than the orator, and what he says must 
come from the subject rather than from his art. 
The excitement he would produce must follow 



18 THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 

and mingle with conviction, not take the place 
of it ; — the splendor that surrounds him must 
be the natural light of truth, not the false 
brilliancy that startles and blinds. He must 
not be surprised to find men the most deliber- 
ate, and most incapable of rashness or delusion, 
in those troubled seasons, when an ancient 
orator would have had nothing more to do 
than add the storm of his eloquence to that 
of the state, and make men find thsir safety or 
ruin in their desperation. 

A superficial observer of modern society 
might suppose that a great deal of admirable 
eloquence was now lost, because its effects 
were not immediately obvious. He would 
say that, in courts of justice, the orator was 
thwarted by the cold vigilance of judges, or 
the restraining formalities of practice, and that 
eloquence in our political deliberations must be 
unavailing, because parties are bound down to 
an arbitrary course of political opinion and 
conduct. And though in listening to instruc- 
tions from the pulpit, the audience are not sup- 
posed to be thus on their guard against the 
power of an orator, yet as the hearer goes to 
the world again with no striking change in his 
opinions or conduct, as a manifest and imme- 
diate effect is seldom the consequence of the best 
sacred eloquence, some might be weak enough 
to think that even this eloquence was but a 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 19 

solemn and customary parade of instruction. 
But would it not be more philosophical to as- 
certain whether these apparent discouragements 
and restraints had not modified and given 
a peculiar character to eloquence without 
impairing its efficacy ? You admit that the 
orator is addressing men who are slow in re- 
ceiving and abandoning opinions, who are too 
wary, conscientious, or wilful to be easily and 
suddenly operated upon, and who are, at the 
same time, so intelligent and thoughtful, that 
they cannot wholly escape the power of just 
sentiments, however unwelcome they may be. 
And you find, accordingly, that the eloquence 
which prevails among them is suited to have 
a growing and permanent influence over the 
character and opinions, even where it does not 
produce, at once, an obvious effect on the de- 
cisions and conduct of men. It aims at making 
men think patiently and earnestly, and take 
an active part themselves in giving efficacy to 
another's arguments or persuasions. It has 
only to secure a lodgement for truth in the 
mind, and by and by the truth will quietly 
prevail. 

Does any one suppose that in such a state of 
things, the resources of the orator must neces- 
sarily be diminished by the entire exclusion of 
feeling and imagination from modern delibera- 
tions ; that plain wisdom, clearly expressed, is 



20 THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 

all that society demands now ; that there is no 
longer any room for persuasion, good or bad ; 
that the heart is shut up, and the judgment 
only allowed to ventm-e within the influence 
of other minds ? This is another false estimate 
which has been formed of modern oratory, and 
it has the same tendency as that already con- 
sidered, to discourage a cultivation of the art ; 
the one by demanding a style of oratory which 
cannot be acquired and would not be endured, 
and the other by making the art so insignificant 
as not to be worth ambition. The true dignity 
and resources of the art are not lessened ; the 
improved state of society is not unfavorable to 
passion or imagination, whenever the subject 
and occasion deserve it and are suited to awaken 
it. Raise the moral character of a state as high 
as you please; give all classes a proper regard 
for the institutions, habits, and opinions that 
alone can establish their happiness ; let the 
public conduct of men be invariably the result 
of settled principles, and not of vague, transient 
impulse, and you will find, indeed, that society 
is tempered and softened, but not tame and 
lethargic. The earthquake and whirlwind are 
stilled, but an active and abundant growth is 
going on everywhere. 

If I were told that the heart and imagination 
had necessarily grown torpid, while society was 
becoming more regular and cultivated, that our 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 21 

best powers were sacrificed in order to our 
well-being, I should ask for the evidence of 
this much sooner than for the reason. I would 
even venture to ask how the fact was with re- 
gard to eloquence itself, I would take the best 
and most characteristic specimens of English 
eloquence in different ages, and learn from them 
if the imagination had perished under the chill- 
ing restraints of an improved society. Can you 
point to productions of ancient eloquence, where 
this power appears to have had such perfect riot 
and joy, and to have been so peculiarly the 
warming and animating principle of the speak- 
er's thoughts ? It seems as if the effect of our 
increased knowledge had been to make men 
more contemplative, live less upon the public 
for excitement, feel the most deeply when alone, 
and suffer their imaginations to enter into and 
warm and illuminate their most serious thoughts. 
It is, indeed, true, that the imagination and pas- 
sions do not predominate in modern eloquence ; 
they are not our turbulent masters. Still we 
think it a false philosophy which tells us that 
it can ever be the effect of general improvement 
to separate them from the judgment. We let 
them work with the judgment ; and they work 
safely, forming and perfecting the character, 
enlivening the truth and impressing it deeply, 
rendering our serious labors agreeable and effi- 
cient^ making us love what we approve, and 



22 THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 

act earnestly after .we have chosen wisely. We 
believe that the more perfect we are, the more 
intense will be our pleasures of taste, and that 
the more we cultivate the heart, the more thor- 
oughly it will pervade and influence our opinions 
and characters. 

Our religion is certainly one of the great 
causes which have given to society that tem- 
perate, subdued character which is thought by 
some to be unfavorable to impassioned elo- 
quence. And yet this religion constantly ad- 
dresses the affections, not only as consisting 
perfectly with a sound mind, but as the very 
principles of our nature on which its moral pro- 
visions for human perfection and happiness are 
founded. It demands not the sacrifice of a 
single power, but that all should be cultivated 
to the utmost, and properly directed and bal- 
anced in order to our happiness. It sends 
neither fever nor lethargy to the heart, but sees 
men equally distant from their good, in the 
frenzy of savage passion and the hardened 
indifference of stoicism. It encourages the 
warmest sympathy, and the noblest and most 
persevering ambition. In offering its simplest 
precepts and sublimest promises, it has spared 
no language, or beauty, or imagery that could 
delight and refine our taste, and make our con- 
ception of its truths distinct and glowing. Take 
the Bible for its eloquence, appealing to all iia- 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 23 

tions and classes in every age, — its power is as 
universal as the sun. The form and tone of 
society may change, bat you cannot so change 
the heart, that this eloquence will not reach it, 
and be a model and help for the orator who 
would reach it. 

As another argument that the art has lost 
none of its dignity or honorable motives, and 
no worthy means of gaining a strong and whole- 
some influence over men, — I would mention 
the importance of character to all successful 
eloquence. It is his virtues, his consistency, 
his unquestioned sincerity that must get the 
orator attention and confidence now. He must 
not rely too much upon the zeal or even the 
soundness with which he treats a question un- 
der immediate discussion. His hearers must 
believe that his life is steadily influenced by the 
sentiments he is trying to impress on them, — 
that he is willing to abide by principle at any 
hazard, and give his opinions and professions 
the full authority of his actions. There are, 
indeed, accidents and artifices that may secure 
present success to the worst men ; but it is the 
general effect of our improved society to give 
an influence to purity, firmness, and stability, on 
which every public speaker may rely for lasting 
consideration and weight. 

It would not be going too far to say, that it 
is not in all the graces of address, or sweetness 



24 THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 

and variety of tones, or beauty of illustration, — 
in all the outward and artificial accomplishments 
of the orator, — to equal or even approach the 
power conferred by a good character. Its still 
eloquence is felt in the commonest transactions 
of life. But it is in the administration of jus- 
tice, in public deliberations upon the endangered 
interests of our country, and in the services that 
are to form us for this world and for heaven, — 
that we feel its majesty and purity in all their 
power, and receive strength from its presence. 
TN'o festival eloquence will do then, no vain 
mockery of art, no treacherous allurements from 
a close and sober inspection of the truths upon 
v/hich we are to act. V/e want then the orator 
who feels and acts with us ; in whom we can 
confide even better than in ourselves ; who is 
filled with our cause, and looks at it with solem- 
nity and wisdom. We want tTien the orator 
who is unmoved by the reproaches or threats 
that alarm us ; who wallas over the injurious 
as over the dust, unconscious even that he 
tramples on them ; who fears nothing on earth 
but a bad action, and regards no considerations 
but those of good principle. 

You need not fill your imaginations with 
glorious forms of ideal perfection in the art ; — 
only ask yourselves what must be the power of 
an orator who is perfectly fitted for an age like 
this ; of one thoroughly prepared to do all that 



THE ORATOR AND HIS TIMES. 25 

eloquence can do among the enlightened and 
free, with subjects to kindle and sustain him, 
and an audience who can feel his character, 
his enthusiasm and wisdom. I would set no 
bounds to his power; — it is only for truth and 
freedom and justice to do it. 



GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 



Rhetoric has long had an ill name in the 
world, and curious would a full history of its 
fortunes be. The controversy of its merits has 
not sprung from the spirit of restlessness, scep- 
ticism and improvement in our own times ; it 
began with our ancient masters, and has come 
down to us from them. It has been carried on 
by the ablest philosophers and critics, by the 
most experienced and eloquent orators, and by 
the most accomplished teachers. The contro- 
versy, moreover, has been one of no little mo- 
ment ; for among the questions on which it has 
turned, were some not less significaat than these : 
— Shall the orator be instructed at all, or left to 
his instincts and exigencies ? Shall he be speci- 
ally instructed to be an orator, or left to gather 
what he can from the common course of liberal 
training ? Shall not all education be involved 
in the preparation of an orator, and the rheto- 
rician be the universal school-keeper ? Will 

[26] 



GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 27 

the art, in its perfection, be likely to make men 
wiser judges in questions whether of private or 
public concern ? 

Jt is sufficient for my present purpose to 
refer to the modern reputation of the art. The 
term, rhetorical, is in familiar use as descrip- 
tive of a certain character of style ; and what 
in general is this character ? Is it one that a 
writer or speaker is pleased to deserve and 
bear ? Does he feel that Aristotle, Cicero, 
Quintilian, Campbell, and Whately are setting 
the seal to his merits ? These questions are 
readily answered. So far as common usage is 
concerned, to call a book or speech rhetorical 
is to say that it is distinguished for fallacies 
and tawdriness, or at best for a charm of 
manner. The word is one of reproach or of 
doubtful compliment. Logic has had better 
treatment, though not a little dreaded for its 
resistless force and its cunnins: devices. The 
logician must be answered. The rhetorician 
may be put aside as a shouaiian, or, if seri- 
ously assailed, it will be for his alleged shame- 
less practices upon the weak side of our nature. 
The sophist was once honorably known as the 
wise man and the teacher, and especially as a 
teacher of eloquence. In the course of time, 
and probably from some abuse of his opportuni- 
ties of influence, he was held to be a cheat, and 
now the terms, sophist, sophism, and sophistry. 



28 GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 

though of the best parentage, are fallen into 
irrecoverable disgrace. The case of the rheto- 
rician is not so desperate as this ; but he still 
thinks that he has reason to resent the general 
ignorance or disallowance of his fair claims. 
He complains that his art is rarely spoken of 
in a thoroughly creditable way but by those 
who teach or study it ; and Archbishop Whately 
would have been glad, I think, of another title 
for his book, — so aware was he that the word, 
as he says, " suggests to most minds an asso- 
ciated idea of empty declamation or dishonest 
artifice." * 

Believing that rhetoric is just as important 
to the faithful and efficient preparation of the 
severest argumentative discourse as of the most 
exciting appeal to the passions ; that it has no 
more to do with grace and ornament than with 
clearness and precision ; that style will be pow- 
erful so far as it is rhetorical, and, accordingly, 
that justice will be done to the thought in the 
degi'ee that we conform to rhetorical principles ; 
— I shall try to state what, as it seems to me, 
the art truly undertakes to teach and accom- 
plish. 

There is no dispute, I suppose, upon the point 

that rhetoric was originally intended to instruct 

men in the composition and delivery of orations. 

It was natural that a course of teaching for 

* Elements of Rhetoric, Preface. 



GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 29 

they® purposes should have been instituted 
amcmg the ancient Greeks, in an age of civili- 
zation, literary tastes and mental activity, but 
not what we should call an age of books. 
Manuscripts were rare and costly ; and as oral 
communication was of course an important 
means of public influence, it early became a 
branch of education. It may be asked, why 
was such an art provided for orators only. 
There were others who wrote and who spoke to 
crowds. The poet recited his verses, the his- 
torian his narratives, the rhapsodists repeated 
the divine strains of Homer, the philosopher 
delivered his lectures, and the player declaimed 
the all-popular drama. Why was not some 
system devised specially for these ? 

A general answer to the question is, that a 
thorough preparation for an orator, — that is, 
of one who is to deliver orations of whatever 
kind, — includes a large amount of instruction 
that will do equally well for every other class 
of speakers and writers, and, as respects some 
of them, the most important instruction they 
need. But to this general reply it may be 
added, that in regard to poetry and the drama, 
they are distinct arts of themselves, though in 
many points nearly allied to what we specially 
denominate oratory. Moreover, the rules of 
poetic and dramatic composition have been 
subjects of criticism and didactic treatises from 



30 



GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 



early times. And if we have no ancient books 
on poetical recitation and on playing, — I mean 
as to what is peculiar to these modes of speak- 
ing, — it may be owing to the small number 
of those who practised these arts, and also to 
the arts themselves being luxuries rather than, 
like oratory, almost necessary accomplishments 
in public and professional life and instruments 
of great popular sway. There can be no doubt 
that these luxurious arts of taste were, in ancient 
days, studied intensely in private by the few 
who were drawn to them by peculiar genius, 
and were made subjects of rules and of minute 
practice. The same may be said of music, 
painting and sculpture. But oratory, like ar- 
chitecture,* was signally a useful as well as 
elegant and luxurious art, and it was to be 
cultivated by thousands, and no doubt by 
many who had little natural turn for it. It 
thus became a part of all liberal education, and 
at times seemed ready to monopolize it. We 
should not be surprised then, that rhetoric, as 
the art of the orator, occupies so prominent a 
place in ancient literature, or even that it 
should have been gradually recognized as the 
art of composition and delivery of whatever 
kind. 

Without attempting a formal definition of the 
word, I am inclined to consider rhetoric, when 

* Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric, Introduction. 



GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 31 

reduced to a system in books,* as a body of 
rules derived from experience and observation, 
extending to all communication by language 
and designed to make it efficient. It does not 
ask whether a man is to be a speaker or writer, 
— a poet, philosopher, or debater ; but simply, — 
is it his wish to be put in the right way of com- 
municating his mind with power to others, by 
words spoken or written. If so, rhetoric under- 
takes to show him rules or principles which will 
help to make the expression of his thoughts 
effective ; and effective, not in any fashionable 
or arbitrary v/ay, but in the way that nature 

* The teacher, whose purpose is to pass beyond the external 
and practical bearings of rhetoric as an art, — that is, to con- 
sider it not merely in its manifestations, but also in its principles 
as a science, — will have to speak of the imagination and the 
passions as giving a tone and character to human speech, which 
are discernible both in the significance of single words and in 
the order which they naturally fall into. The faculty of taste, 
also, must be introduced as the great moderating or tempering 
power, that wars against excess, against false associations of 
images and the unbecoming intrusion of startling but disturbing 
ideas, and which, in these ways and by positive suggestion of 
true and apposite beauty, keeps down all unnatural vivacity and 
gives proper brightness to the genuine. These points, — not to 
name others equally fundamental, — come properly within the 
province of an instructor who would treat fully and scientifically 
his whole subject; but rhetoricians have commonly left them in 
charge of writers on mental philosophy, and satisfied themselves 
with insisting upon propriety of expression, without giving 
prominence to the principles of which it is but the result. How 
much this branch of education loses, by such neglect, in weight 
and dignity, may be worth considering. 



32 GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 

universally intends, and which man universally 
feels. For all genuine art is but the helpmate 
of nature. 

In thus extending rhetoric beyond the super- 
vision of orators and speeches, it will probably 
be found that the orator himself has gained 
something by the extension ; that he is better 
prepared for his vocation than he would be by 
studying rhetoric with special reference to public 
speaking. He will probably be better grounded 
in principles. Let us consider the theory in one 
or two particulars. 

One of the offices of rhetoric is, to analyze and 
explain the style or method of persuasive ad- 
dress, — that method which nature dictates when 
our object is to move the passions, or to direct 
them, and thus to control the will; for such is 
the aim of oratorical persuasion. Now some 
contend that rhetoric should treat of persuasion 
in reference to orations only. The pupil must 
keep forever in sight an assembly of men who 
are about to vote and act upon some immediate 
question or occasion, and whom he is to try to 
influence. This limitation seems to be arbitrary 
and unwise. It seems to be arbitrary, because 
the very oration that is to persuade appeals to 
the same principles of man's nature which any 
other affecting composition or speaking must 
depend upon ; and, in the main, the character 
and qualities of all such appeals will be essen- 



GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 33 

tially the same. The emotion of pity or fear or 
indignation, is precisely the same in its natm-e, 
whether it be raised by the orator or the poet, 
and whether the purpose be to make men act in 
a certain way in an assembly, or to move and 
purify the heart in their solitary reading. Per- 
suasion would arouse, impel, deter, invite; — 
inspire admiration, abhorrence, terror, delight, 
reverence. How is this to be done ? Plainly, by 
appeals to a man's, imagination and taste, — to 
his sense of beauty and grandeur and moral 
excellence, — to his sense of wit and humor and 
irony and satire. These are among the orator's 
means of persuasion. And surely the written 
book, the novel, the history, the fable and the 
acted play make their approaches to the heart in 
the same direction and by use of the same 
methods. I cannot then see how a liberal and 
philosophical rhetoric can overlook any form of 
composition, any use of language that aims at 
power over the heart. I should much sooner 
expect to see it transgress the limits which the 
most liberal would think it proper to establish, 
and carry the student to the galleries of painting 
and sculpture and to the finest performances in 
music, that he might see how much there was 
held in common by all the elegant arts. 

And it is because of this community among 
these arts that I think the limitation, before 
spoken of, unwise. The only reason for making 



34 GHNERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 

any course of teaching exckisive is, that the pu- 
pil may be made more perfect ; and this wall be 
the effect, if we shut out nothing but what inter- 
feres with his successful prosecution of a study. 
But what shall we call an interfering study ? 
Certainly not one which involves the same prin- 
ciples with his main pursuit. No doubt, if the 
student of eloquence were limited to those forais 
and methods of persuasion which he finds in 
speeches, he would discover .there all or most of 
the principles and modes of persuasion which are 
of use anywhere. But this is not the point. 
What we contend for is, that he will have the 
completest mastery of the principles and the 
practice who has studied and felt them in their 
whole application and bearing; — that a man's 
power of affecting others will be less, if he has 
not acquainted himself with the modes in which 
other artists exercise that power, with the re- 
som-ces they employ, with their varieties of style, 
and even with the faintest differences that may 
naturally exist between the manner of a writer 
and a speaker, though they be of equal and kin- 
dred genius and aim at a kindred influence. 
The orator's art is not a mechanical trade, which 
is learned the most perfectly by exclusive devo- 
tion to its details ; but it is one, and only one, of 
the results of a grand action of many powers ; it 
is one child of the prolific mother of many arts, 
which have a common principle or character of 



GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 35 

perfection, and which never fail to help each 
other. When the orator, then, is analyzing per- 
suasion, let him study it in all its connections. 
So far from finding this course an interfering 
one, he will be better prepared for his special 
work. 

And further, such a liberal examination of the 
subject is recommended because it may save him 
from a false and dangerous estimate of one of his 
most important means of influence. By his fre- 
quent use of persuasive address in the course of 
professional business, he might be led to regard 
it as a somewhat vulgar instrument, to be taken 
up and wielded as a matter of course, when he 
comes to certain places in his harangue, rather 
than as a means of high moral power over the 
will ; — to look upon it as a weak point in men, 
that they are impressible and yielding, and so 
ready to be moulded to the purposes of another; 
while he ought to feel that, with poets and min- 
strels and prophets, he is permitted to approach 
with sovereign control the sacred and generous 
fountains of the heart. 

Another office of rhetoric is, to instruct a man 
in finding and arranging the arguments, the rea- 
sons, tlie proofs by which he is to maintain his 
great, leading proposition. If we could make 
people believe, with Dr. Whately,* that rhetoric, 
properly so called, was principally concerned 
* Elements of Rhetoric, Part I., Chap. 2. 



36 GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 

with this business, that its peculiar vocation was 
to furnish proofs and work conviction, probably 
the general ill opinion of the art, before alluded 
to, would be lessened. There is something so 
cool, manly and respectable in convincing, in 
addressing one's-self to the pure, clear reason or 
judgment, that we are disposed to honor what- 
ever has an agency in it, and to forget that fal- 
lacy in presenting our proofs is nearly if not quite 
as easy, insinuating and perhaps mischievous as 
those dreaded sophistries of ornament or of pas- 
sion which fascinate the unthinking and sweep 
away multitudes as with a torrent's force. As it 
is true, however, that rhetoric deals as much 
with arguments as with any other materials of 
discourse, let us get all the credit and favor we 
can for it by insisting on this fact. 

Suppose now, that rhetoric, in the severest 
construction of its functions, should refuse to 
prepare the pupil in respect to his arguments, 
except so far as concerns a discourse that is to be 
spoken, and should perpetually and exclusively 
remind him of a legal tribunal or a legislative 
assembly. He might be slow to learn that the 
most important elements and characteristics of 
argumentative composition belong equally to all 
argumentative works, and that the least impor- 
tant things are the distinctions that separate one 
class of these from others. Yet so true is this, 
that you could not teach him the proper way of 



GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 37 

collecting and stating his arguments for a ser- 
mon, a debate, or a philosophical treatise, without 
teaching him nearly everything that belonged to 
this matter universally. There is a fundamental 
instruction for all cases, of infinitely more ac- 
count than the special directions for particular 
classes of writers or speakers. But though it 
is of consequence to save the learner from the 
false and narrowing notion, that what is most 
important in any one kind of argumentative 
composition is peculiar to it, yet he must not 
be ignorant of what is peculiar to each, and a 
little study and experience will soon inform 
him. 

There is one point relative to the argumenta- 
tive part of a speech which deserves considera- 
tion. Men are very apt to speak of argument 
and persuasion as tvv^o entirely distinct, if not 
hostile methods of address. As they evidently 
mean here, by the word argument, both the mus- 
tering and marshalling of propositions,^ — which 
is the business of rhetoric, — and reasoning from 
them, which belongs to logic, — we may, for the 
occasion, use it in the same vague way. What, 
then, is meant by the alleged distinction ? We 
hear frequently that argument addresses the un- 
derstanding and persuasion the passions ; and 
that reason or the judgment* is proverbially pru- 
dent and safe, while the passions are as prover- 
bially headlong and dangerous. But how should 



38 GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 

such poor commonplaces as these, reach and 
explain the phenomena and the actual results 
of eloquence ? The popular language is, that 
argument is characterized by coolness and de- 
liberation. Yet, how various is its character. 
Sometimes it is incorporated with persuasion, 
so that no separate appeal to the feelings is re- 
quired. Sometimes the subject-matter is such 
throughout, that the arguments adduced in proof 
are necessarily of the most popular and exciting 
description. They are ardent and even fierce 
and overwhelming. Topic follows topic, proof 
is heaped on proof, till we are reminded of 
Milton's ' piled thunder.' We seem to be in 
the midst of fiery shafts and grand peals, with 
the reason as clear as the brave eye in storms 
and peril, and v/ith conviction as seated as the 
rock. 

On the other hand, persuasion is said to be 
heated and reckless, and bent upon setting peo- 
ple above or beyond reason, so that they may be 
ruled by impulse. Yet persuasion has its proper 
topics and method, not less than the coolest 
addresses to the understanding, and is, for the 
most part, a brief and informal kind of reason- 
ing. This siren or this fury is very often reason 
herself, kindk^.d and inspired. Persuasion has, 
indeed, little appearance of proving and con- 
vincing; but this is so, probably, because feeling 
makes perception so rapid that steps and pro- 



GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 39 

cesses are not recognized. The heart leaps over 
the space required for full, formal statements, 
whether of proofs or reasonings, and feels all 
their force without stopping for them. It is not 
meant by these remarks to confound argument 
and persuasion, but to make peace between 
them ; to show that they may and do act 
together with excellent effect, while in bad 
hands both may be equally harmful. 

A third office of rhetoric is, to give instruction 
in speaking; and here, too, the instruction should 
be genera.1. Not only orations, but all depart- 
ments of literature may properly contribute pas- 
sages for the exercises, since the object is not to 
form a particular and habitual style of elocution, 
but to obtain a mastery of all its principles to 
serve any occasion. The aim of liberal educa- 
tion, in general, is not to fit a man for a particular 
calling and refer his studies solely or chiefly to 
that, but to give him a ready command of all 
faculties and strengthen them to the utmost ; so 
that he shall come to his profession with a 
general invigoration and flexibility wdiich pre- 
pare him for the study of any. He is left to 
adapt himself to a vocation or exigency accord- 
ing to its demand. Apply this doctrine to 
speaking. If the pupil were taught exclusively 
with reference to an oration, a play, a parlia- 
mentary debate, &C.5 the direction and extent 
of his natural force would be hurtfully limited. 



40 GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 

He would have the mechanical air of one who 
had learned but a single thing and had been 
practising it all his life ; and more time would 
be occupied, though the object is so distinctly 
bounded, than the most thorough general in- 
struction in rhetoric would require. It is better, 
therefore, on every ground, that speaking should 
not be taught with reference to occasions or 
particular compositions ; or, at any rate, that 
the special instruction should be a secondary 
matter. 

The last office of rhetoric is, to teach the 
principles of composition, or, generally, of a 
good style, in the popular sense of that phrase.* 
This, as I apprehend the subject, brings properly 
under the cognizance of rhetoric the whole use 
of language considered as a means of powerful 
expression. By this more is implied than gram- 
matical and logical propriety. It comprehends 
the selection of efficient words, and a forcible, 
impressive arrangement. 

As I may appear to have been somewhat 

* The word style is not used here to denote a writer's peculiar 
manner, arising from and expressing the original character of 
his mind. This, of course, is not within the province of the 
rhetorician. As a teacher, I aimed no higher than to instruct 
beginners in principles of composition which are common to all 
writers, whatever their style may be ; and such instruction is 
better given in familiar text-books and in private exercises, than 
in a course of public lectures. Accordingly, it filled but a small 
place in mine. 



GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 41 

latitudiiiarian in my former remarks, and to 
have given more work to a single art than any 
one art^can or ought to do, I am happy that in 
respect to style I am justified in setting up and 
observing a limitation, which has been too often 
overstepped. — And I may say here, once for all, 
that I should not have represented rhetoric as so 
comprehensive an art as I have done, if, in any 
philosophical view of it, I had not felt unable to 
do less, or if I could have found any other art, 
with whatever name or pretensions, which could 
properly take part of the burden upon itself. — 
The limitation just referred to is intended to 
guard yoLi against supposing that because rhe- 
toric treats of style in a wide literary sense of 
the term, it should also give a general criticism 
of literature. It has nothing to do with the dif- 
ferent departments of the Belles Lettres, as so 
many distinct forms of writing. It has nothing 
to do with an analysis of poetry, history, fiction, 
biography, the drama, &c., or with their laws or 
their beauties. It leaves this whole field of 
criticism to other laborers, and limits its inspec- 
tion of general literature to the purpose of ascer- 
taining and illustrating the essentials of accurate 
and forcible expression in all good composition. 

Upon this general view of rhetoric, it seems 
to be strictly an instrumental art. It creates 
nothing, and, in one sense, bestows nothing. It 
4* 



42 GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 

takes man with a supposed natural capacity for 
eloquence, with a language already provided, 
and the practice of eloquence already existing. 
Its work is, guidance, direction, and farther de- 
velopment ; to lead men to observe closely the 
principles of that excellence which they already 
acknowledge ; in a word, to bring into system 
the natural practice of all men, the processes we 
go through and the means we employ when we 
express ourselves well. Yet this is the art which 
so many think to be showy, presumptuous, and 
deceptive. Let us give a moment's attention to 
some of the objections which have been brought 
against it, and which were very generally alluded 
to at the beginning of the lecture. 

The objection that it is an arbitrary device of 
sophists to make men orators, to create in them 
the power by giving rules, is sufficiently an- 
swered by the remarks (perhaps some will say, 
the concessions) just made. I will only add 
that rhetoric is no more invented by man, and 
no more pretends to make eloquence or eloquent 
men, than induction was invented by Bacon, 
and, with the help of a teacher, pretends to make 
philosophers. 

Another objection is, that rhetoric undertakes 
to make men orators by offering one and the 
same prescription for all, and is thus carrying on 
secret warfare against individual genius. With 
equal propriety might it be said that one Ian- 



GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 43 

guage for a whole people is hostile to the 
exercise and manifestation of peculiar genius. 
Rhetoric takes no note of differences in men, 
either to supply an absolute want of power or 
to counteract a strong original tendency, but 
regards only those practices which all uncon- 
sciously follow when they speak or write well, 
be they men of gifted minds or not, and leaves 
to every one the full, free use of his peculiar 
resources to effect his purpose. Hence it is, that 
some great triumph of eloquence or some admi- 
rable book may appear to be so decidedly the 
result of something wholly peculiar in the indi- 
vidual, that the cry will be : ' There is a man 
who works miracles without aid from the magi- 
cians ; there is the sheer product of strong native 
genius.' Yet, to acute observers, he will exhibit 
throughout his mastery of the universal princi- 
ples of rhetoric. He could not have triumphed 
without it. He might as well have triumphed 
without the use of language. 

But as soon as we have made this statement 
of the case, the questioned is raised : If rhetoric 
teaches nothing but what is already practised 
without it, why have it at all ? A useful art 
instructs us to apply power in some profitable 
way that we had not known ; but here is an art 
that simply tells us what we have done and can 
do without it. To answer the objection satis- 
factorily would lead us into an inquiry respect- 



44 GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 

ing the utility of art, or the cultivation of acknow- 
ledged natural poMrers and the perfecting of ac- 
knowledged natural operations. This opens a 
large field of remark and illustration, and the 
subject, though involving points already touched 
upon, will require a separate consideration. 

The opinion that the art is of no good practi- 
cal use has probably led to the popular notion 
that it must serve a mischievous one. Why 
was it contrived if it was to accomplish nothing ? 
It cannot be a merely speculative view, however 
curious and interesting, of certain mental actions, 
modes of speech, vocal inflections and bodily ex- 
pressions. It cannot be merely inoperative ; for 
we see it ally itself to a splendid and powerful 
means of influence; — it professes to be and 
is received as the companion and auxiliary of 
orators and writers. From these, and perhaps 
other considerations, rhetoric has been supposed 
to be a device of sophists to furnish an apparatus 
for carrying any cause that could not sustain 
itself, — an art that teaches how the instrument 
of communicating thought may be successfully 
abused, and the semblance of truth and sincerity 
be perfectly put on. And it cannot be denied 
that the pedantry, the frivolous minuteness and 
the pf'tty subtilties of some systems and teachers 
have done much to countenance distrust at least, 
if not so rude a condemnation. Abuses are apt 
to seize the sharpest upon the best means of 



GENERAL VIEW OF RHETORIC. 45 

serving the world ; and signally so, when the 
true uses and objects of these means are not 
thoroughly understood by the many. And, in 
general, people are not so ready to discern the 
beneficent ministry of rhetoric when a good 
cause is ably sustained, as to suspect its insidi- 
ous agency when a bad one is triumphant, and 
the worse is made to appear the better reason. 

Let us trust that in good time our art will be 
more justly appreciated, as surely as its evils and 
its vain pretensions will be lessened by the wider 
prevalence of enlightened opinions on other sub- 
jects. It will then be welcomed as the humble 
assistant of nature and friend of truth. 



ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 



It is still a matter in controversy, whether it 
is not more a harm than an assistance to an 
orator to make speaking a part of his education. 
Those who would dispense altogether with 
teaching it, seeing, as we all see, that a great 
deal of the ancient discipline is ill-suited to 
modern tastes and demands, and believing that 
every method and practice of later elocutionists 
has failed, are inclined to trust to a man's 
natural power of expression whenever he is 
earnestly bent upon carrying his point. They 
find a cure for every evil, and a supply for every 
want, in sincerity and devotedness. Their great 
rule is, ' trust to nature.' Let us first consider 
this very attractive precept. 

The meaning is clear enough. We have by 
our constitution an apparatus for sounds and 
bodily movements, universally significant of 
mental states and action, and sure to operate 
immediately and infallibly unless we clog it. 

[46] 



ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 47 

The fault is ours if the machinery does not 
work well. One mode of obstructing it, we 
are told, is studying to speak well ; for it sup- 
poses that natural impulse is insufficient, that 
the ear is an inadequate judge of sounds, that 
the fullest possession of the meaning of what 
we want to utter with effect is not enough to 
dictate spontaneously the appropriate manner 
of expression. Hence, in our distrust of nature, 
we try, as the next best thing, to imitate her, 
and with the success that might be expected. 
A consciousness of self forever prevents the 
full, lively manifestation of self. The exterior 
is no longer informed by the spiritual. A strict- 
ly artificial accomplishment, drawing attention 
to itself, becomes the crowning glory of the 
orator, while the prevailing style of his delivery 
is monotonous and wearisome. 

The advocates of an entire trust in nature 
sometimes direct us to children as examples of 
its excellent effect. In them we have the 
genuine disciples of nature, — the natural orator 
in the truest sense. The boy is not yet infected 
with affectation, or hypocrisy, or vanity, or 
anxiety about his appearance, or consciousness 
of effort. He has something to communicate ; 
and he seeks some way to utter it, as instinc- 
tively as the body moves under the excitement 
of the briskly flowing blood and the delightful 
sensation of new and healthy life. How in- 



48 ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 

telligible is every gesture, look and attitude 
which waits upon his imperfect speech or in- 
terprets his silence. Every feeling, wish and 
thought has its messenger. No actor, no pan- 
tomime of elder growth is to be compared with 
him. They should study him ; so should the 
painter, — so should the sculptor. He is one 
visible mental expression. And all because he 
is full of the matter and has nature to help him 
out in the utterance. In this we are all agreed. 

Now as the quality of good eloquence is the 
same in young and old, what needs the mature 
speaker but the same surrender of himself to his 
subject, and the same wish and purpose to im- 
press his hearer ? If we are no longer success- 
ful speakers as we advance in years, it must be 
because we are sophisticated. We have lost 
the early inspiration ; and instead of recovering 
it by going back to our youthful ardor and sin- 
cerity, we vainly strive to make up for it by art 
or imitation. 

There is much clear truth in this view; but, 
as we think, there is also an important error ; 
and to detect and expose it shall occupy us for 
the present. liet us inquire what this so much 
reprobated art or teaching is ; and what nature 
would, in general, be without it. 

Many have a vague notion of art as opposed 
to or above nature ; or at least as something 
very distinct from it. But in our present use 



ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 49 

of the term, — in the sense of a means or in- 
strument, — art is drawn directly from all that 
we have learned of the perfect in man's nature, 
and is intended to develope and train what he 
already possesses. It is an experiment upon hu- 
man power to know how far it may be extende d 
and what direction it needs. And, whether he 
knows it or not, every man, in his particular 
calling, is subjected to this experiment. He 
either tries it upon himself or others try it for 
him. He is a pupil, more or less docile, of 
somebody. This is a necessity of his constitu- 
tion and condition. There can be no qualifica- 
tion or dispensation to suit the faculties, tastes 
or pursuits of any man. The very prodigies of 
genius, who seem to us short-sighted worship- 
pers to find their way upward like the plant, 

— if they had the power to reveal the mystery 
of their growth, would probably show us a far 
more thorough course of education, a more strict 
though, perhaps, unconscious obedience to prin- 
ciples, than the most dependent of their brethren 
have ever been subjected to. The poet is called 
emphatically the child of nature. He is born to 
his vocation. Still he is and must be in the 
strictest sense a pupil of art, as in his triumph 
he is a master. To speak only of versification, 

— I admit that there is such a thing as a natural 
ear for melody ; but I must go far beyond this 
simple perception and pleasure to account for 

5 



50 ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 

all the received varieties of verse ; its complica- 
tion, its refinement, and power of endless adap- 
tation. Sound is studied by the poet, till its 
hidden capacity of expression is understood, — 
till verse in its most finished state becomes a 
full exhibition of an inborn faculty, and serves 
to illuminate both thought and passion, however 
various or subtile. 

What should exempt the voice from the ne- 
cessity, imposed upon our powers generally? It 
is certainly capable of being affected in some 
way by experience or practice. It is not too 
aerial to be controlled and harmed by ourselves 
and by others. The proper view of it seems to 
be that nature gives her early lesson where no 
other can teach, and indicates that there is much 
in reserve which we ourselves must bvmg to 
light for the noblest services of speech. Tiie 
natural voice, in order that its full compass of 
expression may be known, and that it may be 
capable of giving the best utterance, needs cul- 
tivation, vigilant study and many experiments. 
No matter how great may be a man's natural 
gift, or whether his practice is the analysis and 
trial of vocal sounds, or an exercise at school, or 
solitary declamation in forests or on the sea- 
beach, or whether he studies the manner of 
other speakers as a means of discovering and 
improving his own faculty; — be the discipline 
what it may, so far forth as he is a good speaker, 



ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 51 

he has followed the true principles of rhetoric. 
Call him a natural or taught orator, it is all 
substantially the same, however true it may be 
that the few who can do nearly everything for 
themselves are greater men than the thousand 
who need help from others. Profiting by a wise 
education is trusting to nature, in the only com 
mon-sense interpretation of the words. We then 
acknowledge her secret forces and try to give 
her full play. 

Besides, the importance of education is seen 
in another view of facts. Many have but little 
of the element of eloquence from nature. Many 
have great deficiencies associated with their 
native gifts ; such as infirmities of temperament 
and ill-directed or corrupted taste. Instead of 
instinctively developing the divine faculty, they 
do all they can to thwart and obstruct it, till at 
last vicious habits shut it from their sight and 
make another discovery of it next to impractica- 
ble. Probably the most confident disciples of 
nature would not refuse the offices of education 
in cases like these. It would be mockery to tell 
such persons to trust to nature when she has 
done so little to inspire confidence, and they 
have done what they could to weaken her en 
ergies. 

No doubt there are bad systems of elocution, 
false teachers, many abuses, many cases where 
nature has sunk under the instruction. So it is 



52 ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 

with everything that is the care and work of man. 
I admit that art, instead of being instrumental, 
as it should be, and wholly merged and lost in 
the power which it has served to bring out and 
perfect, is too apt to survive and betray itself ; 
and that its appearance is especially hurtful and 
offensive in a public speaker, in whom the signs 
of preparation, so far at least as the manner is 
concerned, are apt to raise a, suspicion that all is 
not sincere. But I cannot say that I discover 
the brand upon him more than upon others who 
have systematically followed any business or 
study. As it is only an unhappy accident and 
no necessary result of instruction, it is no argu- 
ment against the use and necessity of instruc- 
tion. 

Let us now return to our infant orator, whom 
we left in the full glow and triumph of extempo- 
raneous eloquence. What a revolution has been 
going on since we parted with him. Well may 
he say with the apostle, ' When I was a child 
I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I 
thought as a child ; but when I became a man I 
put away childish things.' The joyous state of 
being is gone, when the outward, the material, 
the present had the mastery. The age of reflec- 
tion, anticipation, comparison and reasoning has 
succeeded. The inward and abstract are pa- 
tiently studied. A sense of responsibility, both 
for opinion and conduct, begins to be felt. It is 



ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 53 

found politic or necessary to repress emotion 
and to set a guard over the tongue. The more 
a habit is formed of revolving thoughts and as- 
certaining difficult truth, the less eager are we to 
make instant proclamation of feelings and ideas. 
Reserve if not shyness, pride if not distrust, has 
succeeded to the free, reckless, confiding spirit 
of boyhood. The more matured the mind be- 
comes, the more capable of perceiving things 
accurately and comprehensively, and the more it 
feels their importance, the less heed it takes of its 
mode of expressing them. It confides in their 
intrinsic value to recommend, and in the good 
sense of others to understand them. The young 
man has undergone all these intellectual and 
moral changes, and many more, and in these 
respects, at least, has been treated as a proper 
subject of education ; and all the time the power 
of eloquence, the instinctive and perfect discrim- 
inations of the voice have most probably been 
diminishing, and not a step been taken by him- 
self or others to keep up or form a style of ex- 
pression at all commensurate with the growth 
and revolutions of his mind and character. The 
giant is full-sized indeed, but a bond is upon 
him, which has yielded so far as not to hinder 
his growth, but will not suffer him to move with 
his early freedom. 

Here, then, is a subject in pressing need of help 
of some kind. It will never do to say to him, 
5* 



54 ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 

— you will speak well enough if you are but 
let alone or will let yourself alone. Our un- 
taught speakers, in the enjoyment of bound- 
less liberty in this respect, are an ever present 
answer to such a doctrine. What, then, shall 
be done ? The point, unfortunately, is still in 
dispute. 

Among those who reject every theory and 
practice of the masters, whether for development 
or correction, is Archbishop Whately, in his 
well-known views of elocution.* Seeing in the 
old systems and teachers no good fruit and much 
evil, he has suggested, as an all-sufficient remedy 
for the deficiencies of orators, a simple return to 
nature by an entire surrender of ourselves to our 
work, to our meaning and to the occasion. We 
may then ' trust to her to suggest spontaneously 
the proper emphases and tones.' This idea he 
carries out at length and with care. He may 
not prevail with us to give up our teachers ; but 
if they would study his principles, they would 
better deserve our confidence. Let his theory or 
remedy be worth w^hat it may, no man, probably, 
has ever formed a juster conception of the natural 
speaker, or of the faults of the assumed manner. 
No man has better understood the relations in 
which the orator and his audience stand to each 
other. 

The point for which I have been contending 
* Elements of Rhetoric, Part IV. 



ELOCUTION, A STUDY. OO 

is, that we are to give nature free room for mak- 
ing her spontaneous suggestions, by doing our 
own part of the work ; and that is by making 
what we think natural and necessary experiments 
upon her power, by cherishing even the shghtest 
monitions she may give us, and by removing the 
obstructions to her exercise which are perpetually 
placed in her way by wrong teaching, negli- 
gence, imitation, and tricks and bad habits of all 
kinds, acquired from exposures not to be num- 
bered. 

Dr. Whately seems to think that a man in- 
structed in elocution will necessarily have his 
rules occur to him for guidance at the moment 
of speaking, and that these, by reminding him 
of himself, will defeat the natural manner. This 
remark cannot apply to any part of the brief 
view we have taken of his education. The nat- 
ural effect of our plan would be to make him 
think nothing of himself, of his voice, or of any 
rule. He has been employed in perfecting an 
instrument that will now obey the slightest 
touch. The passions may play freely upon it. 
He has been forming good habits and may trust 
fearlessly to their guidance. He has cultivated 
his task till he feels a general confidence in its 
exactness. He is fully equipped and trained, 
and has nothing to do but act and put forth all 
his might. It is a consciousness of weakness or 
unpreparedness that betrays a conscious manner. 



56 ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 

This writer's objections to teaching indicate 
that he is generally if not always thinking of a 
man's reading and speaking, as it were, by note; 
that is, with reference to marks upon his manu- 
script, or to some devices which he has commit- 
ted to memory for the occasion. Fatal as such 
a practice may be, it has no connection with the 
most diligent and minute cultivation of the voice 
for the purpose of fitting it to do its whole office, 
— not for any particular emergency, but for 
whatever demand may be made upon it through 
a long life.* 

It is possible after all, that Dr. Whately would 
countenance our idea of the orator's education ; 
for early in his discussion he says : ' When I 
protest against all artificial systems of elocution, 
and all direct attention to delivery, at the time^ it 
must not be supposed that a general inattention 
to that point is recommended.' Near the close, 
too, he says, that any one who has a faulty 
delivery, — faults of utterance, attitude and ges- 
ture, — should endeavor to remedy the defect by 
care and by availing himself of the remarks of 
an intelligent friend. It is true that he makes 
these admissions with caution, as if careless 
readers might attach undue importance to them; 
but we are willing to hope that, unawares, we 

* In the course of my remarks, the voice, alone has been 
referred to, among the instruments of eloquence, as it was suffi- 
cient for the purpose of illustration. 



ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 57 

have been occupied in carrying out one part, at 
least, of his views. And if we could here state 
in detail what course of instraction we should 
recommend for pupils generally, it probably 
would not transcend the liberty which we think 
is given us by this eminent rhetorician in the 
passages just referred to, nor be thought by him 
to endanger the natural manner. 

Perhaps nothing makes education more impor- 
tant to the orator than the ardor, sincerity and 
devotion to his purpose, on which Dr. Whately 
would rely as all-sufficient. He cannot be truly 
eloquent without these ; but they must be trained 
to his service if he would obtain something more 
than a few brilliant triumphs, — if he would have 
a useful, steady, confirmed power. We are not 
wrong in thinking the delivery natural whenever 
it is spontaneous ; but it may not be natural in 
the highest sense. The want of some native 
gift, or of discretion and skill may perpetually 
betray itself to harm or defeat an effort that was 
full of promise. Most of us, probably, have 
heard men speak who evidently had many of the 
essentials of eloquence ; who were fall of the 
matter, enthusiastic, and determined to convince 
or persuade ; but whose fervor and very success 
betrayed them into exaggeration. This might 
do no harm in a single instance ; it might help 
the cause. Their reputation and influence may 
not suffer for a time. But a faulty manner is 



58 ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 

generated, and the fault will have the credit of 
no small part of the impression made. Constant 
practice . before assemblies, — which ought to 
perfect the oratorical talent, — constant recur- 
rence to some great secret of former success, 
serves, in their case, but to make bad habits 
inveterate and more and more prominent. If 
they feel themselves losing ground as orators, 
their manner becomes more violent, till they are 
beyond endurance, unless sustained by their 
great general ability. 

The question may be asked, whether a com- 
mon man, the least educated in any respect, 
ever fails to hit instinctively the true, thrilling 
tone, whenever he is deeply moved. Does his 
rage, his remorse, his agony of grief, need a 
teacher of vocal inflections ? No, — but shall the 
frantic man come to our assemblies ? Will the 
raw, naked passion, true as it is in expressing 
itself, appeal fitly to cultivated minds, preparing 
themselves by deliberation not less than by 
sympathy for just judgment and action ? With- 
out deducting a jot of sincerity from the passion 
or of nature from the tone, we know that some- 
thing must be done for them before they can be 
admitted to the orator's service. This violence 
would not do even on the stage. How truly, 
how beautifully has Shakspeare instructed, not 
the actor only, but the speaker. How exactly 
has he discerned what the refined ear and taste 



ELOCUTION, A STUDY. 69 

demand. ' Use all gently : for in the very torrent, 
tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your 
passion, you must acquire and beget a temper- 
ance, that may give it smoothness.'* 

Thus the most sincere passion needs the 
restraint of taste, and the moderation, the 
serenity of self-possession. Just as some men, 
who feel deeply what they want to say, speak 
as if they were unmoved, — others, equally sin- 
cere, fail from over-doing.' 

* ' What noble propriety and grace do we feel in tlie conduct 
of those who, in their own case, exert that recollection and self- 
command which constitute the dignity of evei-y passion, and 
which bring it down to what others can enter into. We are 
disgusted with that clamorous grief, which, without any delicacy, 
calls upon our compassion with sighs and tears and importunate 
lamentations. But we reverence that reserved, that silent and 
majestic sorrow, which discovers itself only in the swelling of 
the eyes, in the quivering of the lips and cheeks, and in the 
distant but affecting coldness of the whole behavior. It imposes 
the like silence upon us. We regard it with respectful attention, 
and watch with anxious concern over our whole behavior, lest 
by any impropriety we should disturb that concerted tranquillity, 
which it requires so great an effort to support.' — Smith's 
Theory of Moral Sentiments, I. 45. 



DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY. 



One characteristic of a parliamentary debate 
and of an argument in a com't of justice is, that 
the speech relates to matters of present business, 
such as men are not only to form an opinion 
but forthwith to act upon. The case is diiierent 
with respect to a demonstrative oration ; for this 
is not properly connected with decisions or ac- 
tion. It is intended to please. It may exercise 
no small moral and intellectual influence ; but 
it proposes to itself no special practical result. 

The word, demonstrative, sounds strangely to 
modern ears when applied to eloquence, though 
perfectly familiar as expressive of scientific proof. 
The rhetoricians, not less than the mathema- 
ticians, mean by it, shoif'ing- ; but not in the 
same way, and not, necessarily, with the same 
degree of certainty. The demonstrative oration 
sets forth or exhibits whatever may be its ob- 
ject, and addresses itself to opinion, taste and 
feeling. Its proper business, according to our 

[60] 



DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY. 61 

ancient masters, is the praise or dispraise of 
persons and things ; in other words, panegyric 
or invective. It formed one of the three grand 
divisions of their eloquence, and was thought 
of sufficient importance to have special instruc- 
tion provided for a suitable preparation of the 
discourse. 

In modern times, there are many public 
addresses which fully answer to the ancient 
idea of demonstrative eloquence, and many 
occasions when it is introduced incidentally. 
It is nof seldom that we assemble to hear some 
great event or great name in history commemo- 
rated ; and the opportunity is not lost of inveigh- 
ing against public foes, or the domestic factions 
which we have not joined. Every funeral dis- 
course is as properly a demonstrative oration as 
the panegyrics of classic celebrity. 

What are we to think of a department of 
eloquence for the praise of the living ? Surely, 
it cannot be countenanced in highly civilized 
life. It must belong to barbarism. No ; — the 
savage is probably too simple for such a worship. 
Then it must be intended to adorn the servile 
homage of the ignorant and corrupt in more 
refined society, who would propitiate a despot. 
Not exclusively ; for the most bare-faced praise 
ever offered to man holds a distinguished place 
in the eloquence of the most free, cultivated and 
sober-minded nations from the great ages of 



62 DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY. 

antiquity to our own ; and the orators, the 
incense-bearers, have been among the eminent 
of their time, and in their turn have received 
like adoration. How it is that we say things 
of a man to his face, before a throng, which we 
could not repeat to him seriously in private, 
may be explained as we explain other conven- 
tional ceremonies. But the wonder is that such 
forms do not yield to the good sense which 
has corrected other but not grosser follies of 
fashion. 

Panegyrics of the dead are clear of such 
grounds of reproach. Indeed, the custom has 
a somewhat different object, since the eulogy 
of the living is intended for the credit and ad- 
vantage of both parties, but panegyrics of the 
departed can be designed for none but ourselves. 
We owe a debt to deceased benefactors ; and 
we pay it in the only ways we can ; sometimes 
by imitating them and carrying out their work ; 
sometimes by monuments and praise. Even 
without regard to the benefit we may have 
received, we feel that it would bring discredit 
upon us not to show publicly our sense of 
greatness and excellence. And further, such 
panegyrics are occasions for the relief of public 
sorrow. For nations, as well as villages and 
families, have their common grief in the loss 
of great or good men, and the same mode of 
assuaging it by dwelling on their memory. 



DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY. 63 

Communities, whether large or small, are bound 
together not more by the living than by the 
dead. 

The common faults of eulogies are familiar 
to all, and are easily traced to a few simple 
causes. 

Family pride, in its demands for public ad- 
miration of ancestors, oversteps the line of 
moderation and delicacy. It is impatient of 
bare truth. It thinks too much of survivors, and 
betrays an unbecoming dependence on inherited 
glory. Cicero says that it had been customary 
for families to preserve memoirs to adorn a 
funeral, when any of the race died, and that 
' the truth of history was corrupted by them.' * 
This is a grave charge, indeed, and naturally 
puts readers, as it should relatives, upon their 
guard in the matter of family history. How 
many of us are almost compelled to receive 
our impressions of distinguished persons from 
biographers whom a very natural family pride 
has perverted. Add to this bias that of family 
love, — both equally prone to exaggerate their 
objects whether living or dead, — and we can- 
not be surprised that truth should suffer in 
such hands. 

So it will be if we pass from relatives to 
friends and dependents ; to faithful fellow-com- 
batants with the deceased in political struggles, 
* De Claris Oratoribus, Cap. 16. 



64 DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY. 

and fellow-sniferers with him in their fallen for- 
tunes, — all of them deeply moved, all perfectly 
competent to show us what power a great man 
had gained over them ; and, for these very rea- 
sons, uncertain witnesses to his life and character 
as a whole. 

Next we come to those who appear perfectly 
unexceptionable a-nd safe as reporters ; and if 
they fail, there must be some vice in the custom 
itself. The eulogist may have no personal or 
special interest in his subject, but is called upon 
as a prominent man to prepare a discourse, as 
his part of a great public duty. What prudence 
and judgment are necessary to save him from 
forced extravagances, when he assumes to be 
the representative of the general admiration and 
sympathy. ' To praise often,' says the critic, 
' whether there is ground for it or not, but at 
any rate to over-praise, and to suppress on ail 
occasions the opposite side of the account, is 
the besetting sin of such discourses.' * If 
genuine grief may be frantic, the assumed may 
be hyperbolical. Estimates of character, praises 
of genius, reviews of public services, which 
might be impressive if simple and just, are very 
likely, on such occasions, to be disfigured by 
elaborate analysis and brilliant contrasts, or by 
the pompous swell of generalities. Such are 
some of the perils of praise, whether bursting 
* Edinb. Rev. No. xlvi. p. 353. 



DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY. 65 

from the heart, or struck out from the intellect 
in obedience to a vote. 

I might here recall to you the oft-enumerated 
specimens of demonstrative eloquence in the 
ancient states and in France, and the no less 
memorable instances of its introduction in the 
course of a debate, or of an argument at the 
bar, in England. But I must proceed to other 
matters. 

We are considering a department of eloquence 
which belongs to no profession, or, perhaps 
more properly, which has made none for it- 
st^f. We have orators for the houses of legis- 
lation, for the court-room, and for the pulpit ; 
and the two last classes of speakers form dis- 
tinct professions. But demonstrative orations 
are little more than occasional exercises, some- 
times performed by those who are public speakers 
by their professions, or by men devoted to litera- 
ture or to business. We may conceive of a 
state of society so refined, and, perhaps I may 
add, so luxurious, as to call forth and establish a 
class of what may be called literary orators, as 
distinct and acknowledged as that of authors, 
whose vocation it will be to investigate literary, 
moral and scientific subjects, or the elegant arts, 
and make them familiar and agreeable to multi- 
tudes in public discourses. 

It would be doing no violence to demonstrative 
oratory to bring these within its province. So 
6* 



66 DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY. 

far as the lectures of the ancient philosophers 
were exoteric, they also might have a place here, 
with Socrates, perhaps, to countenance the classi- 
fication. Or if a later authority be demanded, 
we have one in Milton. This stern public cen- 
sor, at the very moment that he was contending 
against king and prelate and the many corrup- 
tions and oppressions which had brought Eng- 
land to the hour of her terrible convulsion, could 
raise his voice in behalf of such means of popular 
improvement as we have now in our minds. 
Music and plays were already proscribed, but 
the Puritan's substitute would not be out of 
place in our days. In his ' Reason of Church 
Government,' he says : 

' Because the spirit of man cannot demean 
itself lively in this body, without some recreating 
intermission of labor and serious things, it were 
happy for the Commonwealth if our magistrates, 
as in those famous governments of old, would 
take into their care the managing of our public 
sports and festival pastimes, that they might be 
such as may civilize, adorn and make discreet 
our minds by the learned and affable meeting of 
frequent academies, and the procurement of wise 
and artful recitations, sweetened with eloquent 
and graceful enticements to the love and practice 
of justice, temperance and fortitude, instructing 
and bettering the nation at all opportunities, 
that the call of wisdom and virtue may be heard 



DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY. 67 

every where. Whether this may not be, not 
only in pulpits, but after another persuasive 
method, at set and solemn panegyries, in thea- 
tres, porches, or what other place or way may 
win most upon the people, to receive at once 
both recreation and instruction, let them in 
authority consult.' * 

It is on ground as broad as Milton has here 
taken in recommending a refining popular cul- 
ture, a wisdom and an entertainment for a whole 
people, that demonstrative oratory may be well 
worthy of consideration and support at this 
time among ourselves. Our courses of public 
lectures in town and country accord very well 
with his idea ; and though once a doubtful 
experiment, they are now regarded as a means 
of supplying a general want. Their uses are 
obvious. In a social view, the mere bringing 
people together to have their minds refreshed 
by truth and their tastes gratified by simple, 
intellectual pleasures, is of itself civilizing. It 
is a very favorable sign of the times, that 
audiences can be collected evening after even- 
ing with no livelier temptation. 

The purpose of such lectures cannot be to 
furnish a great amount of exact knowledge 
which will be retained and used like that 
which we amass in our private studies. Their 

* I have taken those parts only of the passage -which relate to 
our subject. 



68 DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY. 

object, 1 suppose, is partly to hold a sort of con- 
versation with men upon what they are already 
to some extent acquainted with, in order that 
they may compare their ideas with those of a 
fellow-inquirer, and be assisted to take com- 
prehensive views of subjects which they had 
examined by themselves very much in detail. 
Generally, no doubt, the effect is to stimulate 
those who are in the habit of thinking and 
inquiring, to wake up the less intellectual, and 
to make whole communities feel that they have 
other matters of common interest than the 
affairs of their towns and families. 

The demonstrative orator is soon made aware 
of the peculiar difficulties of his position. 
Though he has not the burden that weighs 
on professional speakers, yet he has not the 
excitement of their responsibility. Though his 
subject be an easy one for all parties, yet it is 
not felt to be of pressing importance. Though 
he is at liberty to manage it as he pleases, in 
the absence of opponents and controlhng judges, 
yet the animation of controversy is wanting. 

The orator who is to commemorate the recent 
dead, or any late event of great public interest, 
will suffer little from considerations of this 
nature. And he who is called on to speak of 
a long-past era, may often be at liberty to 
connect existing affairs and opinions with the 
venerable subject of present commemoration, 



DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY. 69 

and thus make it almost as animating as if it 
were new. For example, — dm-ing the two 
centuries since the Restoration, there have been 
many periods, no doubt, when an English 
clergyman might preach before a tory audience 
a very exciting discourse, on the thirtieth of 
January, in celebration of the martyrdom, as i 
was called, of Charles the First, because his 
hearers, while they mourned over the royal 
sorrows and humiliation, would be freshly re- 
minded of the reestablishment of kingly and 
ecclesiastical power, and kindled anew with the 
fires of ancient loyalty and of political hate. 

Our Fourth of July celebrations must always 
give a fair occasion to discuss soberly the com- 
fort of having a country of our own, with a 
government of our own, in connection with the 
trials and sacrifices of those to whom we owe 
both. But, noble as these subjects are, the ob- 
servance might still be dull, if continued merely 
out of respect to usage or a town-vote. It 
gains spirit at once if we can connect with the 
Declaration and War of our Independence some- 
thing kindred in the passions, struggles and 
hopes of our own day. The hearer is always 
glad to have a real, present case in which he 
can fasten those vagrant and showy generalities, 
which form too large a part of our demonstrative 
orations. And the orator must be as thankful as 
the audience ; for it is both a relief of labor and 



70 DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY. 

an enriching of the mind to start with some- 
thing near and definite, and to feel it all the 
way. 

But of that whole class of literary discourses 
to which I before alluded, and of a large part 
of occasional addresses, — not overlooking the 
performances of my young friends here, on our 
pubhc days, — it may be safely said that the 
interest depends mainly upon the speaker. He 
can scarcely expect help from accident or from 
forcing into his service anything foreign to his 
subject. The whole work of moving his au- 
dience may be thrown upon him. It will not 
be enough to prepare an address that will do to 
read. They might as well have staid at home 
till it was printed. They have come together 
for new impression, larger views and stronger 
faith. There must be a popular tone to the 
address, an adaptation to various minds, so that 
all shall be moved, though they be m^oved dif- 
ferently. They have brought their common 
nature to the place of assembly. They have 
not provided themselves with a peculiar set of 
feelings or susceptibilities to bring them into 
readier communication with the speaker. They 
have not spent hours with him in his study to 
investigate his subject or learn the general 
course of his remarks. They expect him to 
furnish thoughts for them and command their 
attention. 



DEMONSTRATIVE ORATORY. 71 

To answer these demands, it is too obvious to 
be said that, besides a perfect mastery of his 
subject, he must have a deep and sustained 
interest in what he is saying. He must believe 
that he is uttering what others ought to hear 
and take to heart, though in fact it be no more 
urgent that a general concern should be felt in it 
to-day, than it was a year ago or will be a year 
to come. Whatever be the subject, he must 
have his points fixed and always visible, his 
statements almost laboriously distinct, the strain 
of the discourse unbroken ; and, by all the power 
of imagination he possesses, he must try to keep 
up a gentle, steady, cheering flame from the 
opening to the close. 

Lastly, since his audience are at peace and 
ought not to be otherwise, let his style of de- 
livery be quiet and familiar. The tones should 
be spontaneous and sincere, that they may grad- 
ually acquire that arresting power which marks 
the colloquial manner. Nobody can escape it. 
The subject is all in all to the speaker, and his 
hearers are conscious of nothing but deep im- 
pression. 



DELIBERATIVE ORATORY- 



One of the departments of eloquence known 
equally to the free states of ancient and of 
modern times, is that of deliberative bodies. 

By these, we understand assemblies consulting 
upon the adoption or rejection of measures; and 
the business of the speaker is to advise, persuade 
or dissuade. As legislative bodies are the most 
important of the class, the term is almost ex- 
clusively applied to them; and in giving you 
my views of deliberative eloquence, I shall limit 
myself to its manifestation in a modern legisla- 
ture. This will lead us to consider, first of all, 
the composition of such a body. 

Our most popular legislative assemblies are 
composed of persons appointed from time to 
time, by the people, to represent them. We are 
not accustomed, nor would it be possible for us 
to bring the whole population together for the 
purpose of legislation ; ' nor do we think that 
every person who is entitled to the protection 

[72] 



DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 73 

of laws is competent to make them.' Deputies, 
accordingly, are elected to act for the people in 
this behalf. The presumption is natural that 
men, in whom such a trust is reposed, will ex- 
ercise some influence over their constituents, as 
well as consult their pleasure. They are suffi- 
ciently independent of the people to do v/hat 
they hold to be their duty and best for the 
country, without incurring peril of any kind; — 
at least, such is the theory of free governments; 
— and yet, as they are soon to feel the popular 
supremacy at new elections, and as they them- 
selves are to be subjected, equally with their 
neighbors, to every law which may be passed, 
we think we are pretty well guarded against 
their abuse of their power. 

What, then, is the power of this representative 
assembly? With us, certainly, it is prescribed 
and limited. It falls short of that of the whole 
sovereign people, or of an absolute monarch. 
Our free institutions have distributed this limited 
legislative power among equal and independent 
branches, and made the consent of each essential 
to a bill's becoming a law. The popular branch 
is checked by one which is differently consti- 
tuted, and which may even represent a some- 
what different interest. In our country, this 
check is in the senate, either of the Union, where 
the particular states are represented as so many 
distinct sovereignties, — or of each state, where 
7 



74 DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 

at times this branch has, in part, represented 
property. You perceive that one object of such 
constitutions of government is to give every man 
and, to some extent, different interests, a proper 
weight in public affairs. There is no indication 
of a particular jealousy of popular influence, as 
if it were naturally a deadly one. There in very 
little to choose between forms of government, if 
they are wholly unchecked. Let a wise people, 
the fondest of liberty, undertake to frame a whole- 
some political constitution, and by the very act 
they are beginning the work of self-restraint, as 
the first element of true civil liberty. 

We contend that in modern legislatures the 
people are surer of having a good influence over 
public counsels, than they were in the most un- 
checked democracies of antiquity, for the reason 
that they are less liable to be misled by their 
leaders or by deceptive promises or representa- 
tions from any quarter. Hume, in his essay on 
'some remarkable customs,'* includes among 
them the provision of the Athenian lavv^ for the 
better security of the state against demagogues. 
The Athenians had suffered enough, it seems, 
from their tumultuous democracy, to feel the 
necessity of some better restrictions than any 
rule they could devise for the government of 
their own popular assembly ; in other words, for 
the government of themselves. They had not 
* Essays. Vol. ii. p. 128. 



DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 75 

sufficient confidence in themselves to expect that 
the judgments they should form under the in- 
fluence of a powerful eloquence, would be 
approved by them in their cooler moments. 
They were afraid of their orators ; and, for se- 
curity, they fell in vengeance upon the orators, 
and visited them with the punishment that 
would have been as fairly directed against their 
own sins or follies. The orator was in peril 
of a trial and condemnation in a court of law, 
if any measure was adopted by the people on his 
motion, and afterwards held by the court to be 
injurious. You will judge then of the compe- 
tency of the people to legislate, and of the 
freedom of the orator who addressed them. 
Hume remarks, that the Athenians 'justly con- 
sidered themselves as in a state of perpetual 
pupilage ; where they had an authority, after 
they came to the use of reason, not only to retract 
and control whatever had been determined, but 
to punish any guardian for measures which they 
had embraced by his persuasion.' 

Our simple remedy for the evils of ill-organized 
liberty is in choosing from among ourselves a 
limited number to be the organ of the popular 
mind and will ; and the demagogue, who mighfc 
easily inflame and control a mixed multitude, 
may find himself baffled in his attempts upon a 
small assembly, coming from many different 
places, well confided in by those of their neigh- 



76 DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 

borhood, and representing somewhat different 
interests and opinions. 

In the passing of laws, we see how much more 
the dignity and safety of the people are consulted 
in modern than in the ancient free states. The 
popular branch does not wait for the senate to 
prepare measures, as was provided by the consti- 
tution of Solon. The house of representatives 
originates laws at its pleasure, and, in that most 
important one which provides for raising revenue, 
the bill must be introduced there. Its delibera- 
tions are perfectly free. There is no magistrate 
who can defer its proceedings to another day, 
by pretending that the auspices are unfavorable. 
There is no power that can interfere to regulate 
its debates, and no apprehension that a usurping 
sovereign or president will break in upon its con- 
sultations to overawe or scatter the assembly. 
To be sure, they cannot send their tribune to 
stop the grave proceedings of the fathers ; but 
the history of popular branches of government 
may teach them to be content with the inviola- 
bility of their own privileges. 

I am now to offer you some remarks upon the 
character of our deliberative eloquence. As they 
may appear to you exaggerated, if not wholly 
unsupported by facts, I say here, once for all, 
that in my views of the state of eloquence, in 
any of its departments, I do not refer to partic- 
ular speakers or occasions. I merely give you 



DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 77 

my idea of the genuine characteristics of the best 
eloquence that grows naturally out of our insti- 
tutions and state of society, so far as this idea 
seems to me to be justified by my observation. 
The picture may be ideal ; or, at any rate, few 
orators may answer to it in the whole. Still, if 
it be true in its details, though never realized in 
their entire combination, it will be more just and 
more instructive, as a general sketch, than one 
which gave you a sort of average estimate of 
modern oratory. 

I begin, then, with saying that the eloquence 
of our deliberative assemblies is such as w^e 
should expect from their constitution or theory. 
In general, it is marked by a spirit of independ- 
ence, or by a man's sense of his individual im- 
portance. I do not mean by this a boisterous 
impatience of opposition, a rude abuse of consti- 
tuted authorities, or a contempt of plebeian 
wisdom. Such independence is low-bred, and 
easily tamed by a man of true spirit and eleva- 
tion, who has a proper respect for himself, and a 
scrupulous delicacy towards the feelings and 
claims of others. The independence I would 
illustrate is dignified and unoppressive, and 
springs immediately from a becoming pride, and 
from a man's consciousness of his political privi- 
leges, and of his responsibility to himself as well 
as to others. He is not to bring his prejudices 
or his private interests with him, when he pro- 
7* 



78 DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 

fesses to act for a whole people. He is not to 
think of the place, or the honors, or the popularity 
he may gain or forfeit, by following this or that 
course of public conduct. He is not the creature 
of a king, of a set of ministers, or of his con- 
stituents. He has nothing to fear for his per- 
sonal safety. The enemy that lies in wait for 
him is more formidable, more subtle than the 
assassin. It is the influence which affection, or 
prejudice, or self-interest may exercise over his 
judgment, and of commanding minds over opin- 
ions and resolves which he ought never to sur- 
render. Such weakness or vice of the mind, as 
is here implied, belongs to no age or state of 
society ; but the moral checks upon it and the 
restoring virtues may be exceedingly multiplied 
and strengthened by improved public sentiment. 
A man cannot be long in doubt that if he would 
have wide and firm influence among freemen 
now, he must follow out his sincere, deliberate 
opinions through good report and evil report, and 
in the face of every temptation. 

Another effect of modern free institutions upon 
deliberative oratory may be seen in the intel- 
lectual character and moral tone of a popular 
debate. In the ancient democracies, w^here al- 
most every man was a legislator and had his 
vote on public measures, — such a multitude of 
statesmen, all fond of politics, all practically 
versed in government, and rarely meeting with- 



DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 79 

out some exciting business, may have presented 
to an orator a more inspiring audience than our 
two or three hundred considerate representatives, 
assembled at a stated season to legislate for 
months together, upon matters of a private as 
well as of a public nature, and then returning 
quietly to their distant and far-separated homes, 
and to their daily affairs which they may have 
reluctantly quitted. It should seem, too, that we 
are less capable of sudden, violent and transient 
excitement ; or that from temperament, or from 
circumstances, we live less in a habit of passion. 
It is probable that a single popular allusion, nay, 
a single word might have produced a more tu- 
multuous sensation in a Roman or Athenian 
crowd, than the most awful appeal to men's 
hearts from Burke, or Chatham, or Ames, or 
Patrick Henry could produce now. 

But we must not argue for or against the elo- 
quence of different ages and nations from the 
immediate external effect. Sometimes the sud- 
den outbreak of passion in the audience is the 
sign of a deep and never-dying sentiment and 
purpose; and the orator's victory will be as 
memorable as that of his countrymen in the next 
great fight. And yet, sometimes, when there is 
no outward demonstration beyond the sedate 
look, the hush of expectation and the low rustling 
of an agitated throng, there shall be passion as 
profound and resolve as unmovable. I think 



80 DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 

that it. takes nothing from the merit of modern 
political orators to concede, that our most impas- 
sioned popular eloquence is marked throughout 
with the intention of leading considerate men to 
responsible action. It wears a somewhat serious 
and business character. It generally has not so 
much the air of a studied, finished discourse 
prepared for an appointed occasion, as that of 
extemporaneous addi-ess ; — the substance well- 
weighed beforehand, and perhaps without refer- 
ence to the immediate demand ; but the style 
and manner partaking of all those changes which 
the mind itself experiences, when engaged and 
strongly affected by present interesting circum- 
stances, and receiving a direction to its own 
thoughts, as well as giving one to those of 
others. 

Our deliberative eloquence, when it professes 
to be most popular, still grounds itself in truth ; 
sometimes, it may be, the most general and 
abstract truth ; but always for an obvious and 
practical use. The orator does not speak of the 
history of his country to set the people wild by 
reminding them of the great deeds of their fath- 
ers, but to explain and apply the nation's expe- 
rience. He does not speak as if all the good of 
a speech were done at the moment of its delivery, 
or as if emotion were the great end of all elo- 
quence. He knows that he is addressing men 
who are capable of strong passion, but who are 



DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 81 

in the habit of demanding a warrant or justifica- 
tion for passion. And it is in unconscious obedi- 
ence to the demands of their known character, 
that he becomes the eloquent expounder of deep, 
wide-branching, far-stretching political truth. 
He recognizes connection in events, perpetuity 
in the action of political causes, identity in the 
nature of man, under all governments and in all 
climates ; while he also admits the power of 
present circumstances to modify the application 
and influence of long-acknowledged principles. 
So that he is forever engaged in a course of 
prophetic reasoning, as well as in explaining the 
immediate bearings of a question. He binds 
the truths and the wisdom of to-day to those of 
all past time, and to those that will be the fruit 
of a still larger experience in the ages to come. 
He is a philosopher in the best sense of the term, 
and yet as familiar with affairs and as safe in his 
deductions as a man whose whole life has been 
spent in calculations and details. 

Perhaps I cannot better illustrate my meaning 
than by saying that our genuine deliberative 
orator speaks in the spirit with which Burke 
wrote, when he undertook to give a right direc- 
tion to public opinion in England on the subject 
of the French Revolution. Was there ever a 
finer topic for the explosions of a demagogue, or 
for the servile commonplaces of a courtier ? 
But he was neither. He fell not into a disgust- 



82 DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 

iiig adulation of kings, or a scornful invective 
against popular sentiment, or a deceptive pane- 
gyric of freedom. He went to the foundation 
of government, yes, of society itself, in England 
and everywhere. He showed what sorts of in- 
novation Avere to be dreaded, and what sort of 
deference to old feelings and old observances 
was useful and honorable, and w^hat alone it was 
that deserved the name of freedom. He talked 
to men who had been in the habit of thinking 
and feeling correctly ; and his triumph of elo- 
quence was in settKng the strange disorder of 
their minds, in clearing the atmosphere of bewil- 
dering mists, and saving his countrymen from 
adopting sentiments of liberty that were as 
foreisrn to their whole nature and life as the 
death-like rule of an eastern despot. 

We will now attend to some of the peculi- 
sirities and uses of deliberative oratory. The 
relation in which the speaker stands to his 
audience is peculiar. He is one of the assem- 
bly he addresses. Every member has equal 
right with himself to express his opinions and 
to introduce measures, under such regulations as 
the house may establish. He has nothing to 
do with spectators. His remarks must be in- 
tended and directed to his companions. He is 
to adhere to the principle on which such a body 
is formed, — that deliberation, consaltation is 
the means of arriving at the most prudent 



DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 83 

conclusion. But he is not obliged to go into 
the whole question under debate, or to make a 
formal oration. He may ask for advice, state 
his doubts and difficulties, answer a remark 
from some one member, explain one of his own 
that has been misapprehended, and maintain or 
oppose some opinion which has only a partial 
bearing on the measure discussed. Sometimes, 
the debate will be little more than a conversa- 
tion between members, though, for the preser- 
vation of order, it must in form be addressed 
to the presiding officer. 

Observe here one difference between debate 
and arguments at the bar, where the counsel 
having pledged themselves to give the best 
support they can to the side for which they 
are engaged, are, from beginning to end, doing 
their utmost to obtain from the court or jury 
an opinion or a verdict. The deliberative ora- 
tor is at least supposed to have adopted no 
opinion which he will not abandon for a better. 
He _is not to think so much of bringing a 
majority to his side, as of ascertaining which 
side is the true one for all, by offering his own 
views and listening to those of others. In 
short, all the parties have but one and the same 
client. 

It has been said that this is very well in 
theory, and might be very well in practice ; 
but that in fact it is quite idle to talk of the 



84 DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 

great fairness of mind which is supposed to 
distinguish a legislative assembly. For a poli- 
tician will form his opinion and hold to it, 
like other men. He must be something more 
or less than human, to go into a house of par- 
liament, first of all, to have those opinions 
questioned, sifted and tried, as if they were 
doubtful, which his laborious inquiries have 
led him to form, and which his pride, his in- 
terest, his self-love will tell him to hold fast, 
whatever unexpected light the discussion may 
throw on them. He goes believing he is in 
the right ; and he will and he ought to do his 
best to make others think with him. 

The answer to this is, that truth is better than 
self-conceit or victory. The orator with his 
mind made up will say so too. And if he 
have firmness and circumspection, there can be 
no doubt that the hottest controversy will only 
strengthen his carefully formed belief, by show- 
ing still more clearly the strength of its founda- 
tion. A fair mind is not a yielding and unstable 
one, that forms no opinion for itself, but waits 
for another and another to act upon it, and 
do the whole work of thinkins: for it. Nor is 
it one that has no confidence in its opinions, 
till others have passed upon and sanctioned 
them. If we see a man unwavering in his 
sentiments through the fiercest debate, we have 
no right to say that he has resolved against 



DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 85 

all change ; it may be that he has guarded 
against all reason for change. If the states- 
man is in error, he may be set right. If others 
are less informed or less sound, he will set 
them right. If his peculiar sentiments are 
little suited to the temper of the people or the 
state of things, he is so to modify them as to 
secure the greatest practicable good, without 
the slightest desertion of right. If, after all 
this, he finds himself in the minority, he must 
not go on with concession after concession, till 
he has given up ah that he owed to a good 
cause, to his country, to the world, to distant 
ages, for the sake of humoring the populace, 
or of being taken into favor at court. He must 
leave his opinions to the fairer judgments that 
certainly await them. 

But it is further urged against the efficacy 
of debates in modern times, that every repre- 
sentative belongs to some political party, and 
goes to the assembly with his mind made up 
to vote with his party on every question that 
has the least political bearing. The legislature 
itself does not deserve to be called a deliberative 
body when such questions are before it. The 
ministry will of course find their party in full 
array for the cabinet ; and the opposition, as a 
matter of course, will resist every measure that 
comes from that quarter, and, in general, for no 
other reason. 



86 DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 

In reply to a part of this statement, we might 
ask whether there is not as much deliberation, 
as frequent interchange of well-weighed opin- 
ions, and as prudently formed convictions in 
our senates and parliaments, as there were in 
the ancient assemblies ; and if so, why are they 
not as well entitled to the name of deliberative 
bodies ? But further, — suppose that political 
parties are arrayed against each other, ever so 
resolutely in the senate-house, yet how is a party 
to be kept up ? How are converts to be made ? 
How are antagonists to be weakened ? How 
are the people without the walls to be held 
together in steady support of one side or 
another ? Surely not by intrigue, corruption, 
and falsehood. These may sometimes answer 
in extreme cases ; but they are the desperate 
means of bad men, and must soon ruin those 
who try them, even in a worse state of society 
than ours. A party is not kept together by the 
mere prudent management of a few leaders. 
Orators and writers must be active to set forth 
and defend its opinions and objects. Its rivals 
will gain dangerous ground if they have the 
whole artillery of wit, argument, invective, and 
passion left to their own undisputed service. 
Silence will be discomfiture. 

This may, indeed, seem more like waging 

war than deliberation. But the question re- 

ates now to the efficacy of debates ; and what is 



DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 87 

their effect ? Why, that the minds of the stoutest 
partisans are often arrested ; sometimes by fear, 
sometimes by the downright sense of a speech. 
There are, even at this day, many changes of 
opinion produced by better inquiry and infor- 
mation. And when you see the anxiety of 
political leaders, lest they should lose their 
majority by desertion, you need not doubt that 
their alarm is more from the power of public 
discussion than of secret influence. And, be- 
sides those who are regularly enlisted under one 
or another political standard, many yet remain 
to choose their side by what they may hear said 
for it. Then, how many questions there are on 
which men are not yet divided, and on which 
the public are yet to receive direction. 

I see nothing in our political organizations 
or in the character and proceedings of our de- 
liberative bodies to discourage an orator from 
aiming at a decisive sway over men. It will 
cost him time, patience, labor. He has the 
prejudices, the ingenuity, the wisdom and calm 
convictions of enlightened minds to act upon ; 
not the senses and passions of an unthinking 
populace. But the thought should be exhilara- 
ting and sustaining, that he has men near who 
understand him and whom he respects. Let 
him not complain of the slow pace of his in- 
fluence. He may hope to do his work more 
thoroughly and leave an impression more deep, 



DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 



by his steady, persevering attempts on men's 
minds. 

Let it be remembered that legislatures cannot 
safely decide now with the rapidity of an ancient 
popular assembly. The w^ays of ascertaining 
the sense of the people on public matters are 
often less simple now than they once were. 
The masses are not at hand to show their 
opinions and wishes by acclamations or mur- 
murs. But a man of observation wiU learn in 
good time how far he may rely upon a general 
support of measures, and to some extent whether 
they are likely to have but a brief popularity 
or to become part of the settled policy of the 
country. That more time is taken -now than 
was required in Athens for legislators to make 
up their minds, does not of itself prove that 
their measures are more complicated or critical ; 
but it certainly shows that they are anxious 
to learn the views of their constituents ; that 
they are disposed to consider propositions in 
all their bearings ; that they are accustomed 
to think for themselves, and to act rather from 
individual conviction than from joint impulse. 

Of course, the changes of opinion in modern 
deliberative bodies, like those in society at large, 
will proceed, for the most part, slowly and 
regularly; but they will certainly take place, 
for the better or the worse. The sand-drift of 
the desert might almost as well be expected to 



DELIBERATIVE ORATORY. 89 

become one immovable mountain, as that public 
sentiment or party feeling and objects should be 
immutable. All history, all experience is against 
it. Parties, that have kept their names and 
their love and possession of power, have never- 
theless dropt, from time to time, their long- 
popular and ail-prevailing cries and watch- words. 
Favorite schemes of policy have been abandoned 
by ministers and factions ; and men of the high- 
est influence have deserted their old standards, 
from principle, or fear, or ambition, ever since 
'communities have been divided into sects and 
parties. 

Sometimes this mutability is hurtful. But, in 
general, we take it to give hope of good progress 
in morals and in political wisdom; and without 
it we could never rid ourselves of errors. Till 
men are perfect, there will be something to mend 
in what they fondly deem their soundest opin- 
ions ; and a blind adherence is debasing ob- 
stinacy. In the inquiry for truth, they must 
assist themselves and each other ; and even in 
these days of cool judgment and tenacity of 
opinion, the influence is immense which one 
man may exercise over another, both in private 
intercourse and in' public discussion. 



8* 



JUDICIAL ORATORY. -THE PROEESSION 
AND THE TRIBUNAL. 



A. LAWYER is SO thoroughly a man of study 
and business that, if asked what idea he enter- 
tained of the eloquence of the bar, we should 
not be surprised at his answering, — ' I know of 
no such thing.' Lookers-on are more open to 
impression, and to them may be left the task of 
noting its circumstances and its peculiarities. 
Their attention w^ill be drawn first to the pro- 
fession itself 

A lawyer is an officer of a court of justice, 
who publicly professes that he will take upon 
him to give advice in all matters of a legal 
nature, and to maintain and defend such rights 
and interests as may be contested before the 
courts. 

Plow is it that such a profession came to be 
established ? In almost all nations we are ac- 
quainted with, except the most simple or most 
barbarous, we are sure to find lawyers. Some- 
times they constitute, as with us, a distinct body 

[90] 



THE PROFESSION AND THE TRIBUNAL. 91 

in the state ; and sometimes they perform the 
duties of the office for friends and dependents, 
though not devoted exclusively or principally to 
the practice. Why is it not now as it was in the 
simpler ages of the world, when the patriarch of 
a tribe, or the sovereign of a community of shep- 
herds or husbandmen, was both the lawgiver and 
the unassisted judge; when the aggrieved stated 
his own wrong, the accused defended his own in- 
nocence, and all had justice done them without a 
bribe or a fee, — without the expense which now 
falls alike on the just and the unjust litigant? 

There are men, even at this day, v/ho trace 
the origin of this profession to the ambition and 
arts of a few able spirits, who saw a way open 
to influence and profit by encouraging and 
managing the strifes of their neighbors. They 
observe much to complain of in the unprinci- 
pled doings of a part of the profession. Perhaps 
they have suffered severely themselves from the 
hardships with which the impartial judgments 
of a court sometimes fall upon the unfortunate ; 
and in their moments of sore irritation they 
charge the calamity upon the whole body of 
lawyers, and hold them up to abhorrence as the 
enemies of the peace of neighborhoods, and as 
living upon the bad passions and hard fortunes 
of others. But in another and perhaps a more 
reasonable view of things, the legal profession 
has arisen from the necessities of our condition. 



92 JUDICIAL ORATORY. 

We may say from our vices, if we please. 
These are no doubt accountable in part, as they 
are for many other wise and useful institutions. 
I suppose it may be said with trath that all the 
liberal professions had their beginning in some 
necessity of mind, body or estate. 

But they do not seem to be all regarded with 
equal favor. We do not complain that the 
clergyman and physician are always at hand. 
We offer them every encouragement to come 
among us. They give relief and comfort when 
we are suffering under inevitable evils, or under 
such as we have brought upon ourselves. But 
a man in possession of an estate, and, it may be 
most lawfully in possession, sees a merely arti- 
ficial evil of the social system when the intruder 
comes to dispute his right. At any rate he will 
insist that society ought to bear all the burden 
of defending a good title which it allows to be 
disputed. He exclaims, ' why should I fight 
and pay for that which, by the law itself, is 
mine ? Why should I suffer loss and disquiet, be- 
cause some litigious neighbor chooses to doubt 
my right and set up a false claim of his own ? ' 

There is hardship or at least inconvenience 
in this, as in many other cases where the in- 
stitutions of society try to do their best for 
protecting individual rights and settling contro- 
versies. The courts are impartially opened to 
all ; and it must not be presumed that any claim 



THE PROFESSIOxN AND THE TRIBUNAL. 93 

is false. Ad examination must be had, and here 
unexpected difficulties may require professional 
aid at considerable expense, — probably at much 
greater than would be compensated by the legal 
allowance of costs. Let not the lawyer be 
blamed for evils that he did not create and does 
not continue. If human affairs could but grow 
less and less complicated every day, so that a few 
simple rules would anticipate and provide for 
every case ; or if we could but grow good enough 
to leave safely all questions to the decision of a 
single judge or ruler, we should live in a very 
different world from this, and have no farther 
occasion for lawyers or rhetoricians. As things 
are, we shall take it for granted that the profes- 
sion must exist as a distinct body of men learned 
in the law. 

We come next to topics that bear somewhat 
upon the opportunities and the character of legal 
eloquence. There are with us two very different 
audiences to be addressed, — the court and the 
jury. In some stage of almost every case before 
a court of law, both will have to take a part in 
it ; and, — what to inexperienced persons might 
appear a very awkward arrangement and most 
unpropitious to eloquence, — the advocate will 
often be compelled to turn to the court with one 
part of his case, and then to the jury with another. 
Practically, however, this course is not at all em- 
barrassing to any of the parties. My purpose 



94 JUDICIAL ORATORY. 

being to speak of the lawyer as an orator, it is 
proper to consider the character and office of the 
two very different bodies he addresses. Let us 
begin wich the court. If we have a distinct idea 
of the spirit and manner in which it administers 
justice, we shall have no doubt that it exercises 
a decided influence on legal eloquence. 

A man, little versed in legal proceedings, on 
going into court and seeing the judges and 
counsel studying, with a caution almost amount- 
ing to reverence, voluminous reports of decisions, 
running perhaps through centuries, and for the 
purpose of deciding a case which, he thinks, he 
could settle justly in a very few minutes, would 
wonder, perhaps, why the eternal rule of right or 
the simple dictates of honesty and good sense 
were not allowed to have effect in a court of jus- 
tice. He would not understand you, if you were 
to insist that in a thousand cases nothing was 
wanted but to ascertain what the law was ; and 
that it was no more a matter of conscience or 
good sense than it was of mathematics, whether 
the words of a deed, for instance, gave an estate 
for life or in fee-simple. He would be equally in 
the dark if you should urge upon him, that it 
is often much more important to have the law 
settled than to have it perfectly acceptable. 
Certainty, then, in the law and an intelligible 
interpretation are the first things to be secured. 

The cited authorities may not extend to all 



THE PROFESSION AND THE TRIBUNAL. 95 

the circumstances of a case ; yet, wisely inter- 
preted, they may furnish a rule that will reach 
the material points. Besides, then, a severe 
analysis of the case in hand, the decisions that 
appear to bear on it must be examined and dis- 
tinguished, in order to avoid giving undue weight 
either to points of resemblance or to those of dif- 
ference. In all this we see nothing but the exer- 
cise of patient inquiry and keen discrimination, 
for the purpose of administering the law consist- 
ently and upon principles, in defiance of all com- 
plaints as to a particular hardshi|) in this or that 
instance. To acute minds there must be a great 
charm in a scrutiny like this ; and no doubt they 
would see much in the process and the result 
which they would call beautiful. Common 
language, however, has reserved the word, elo- 
quence, for somewhat different occasions and 
discourse. 

But the anxiety of modern courts to settle and 
adhere to principles is not all that may affect 
the tone and style of bar oratory. They are 
equally anxious to have a cause placed upon its 
merits, upon points which are really and solely 
at the heart of the controversy ; and in settling 
which you determine something material be- 
tween the parties. Hence the formality with 
which a suit is brought into court. A party is 
expected to rest his case deliberately on the 
grounds which he feels most safe upon, and the 



96 JUDICIAL ORATORY. 

opposite side is to know what he must reply to. 
The whole proceedings, up to the moment when 
the argument may be said to begin, are prudently 
ordered to bring the parties at length to some 
substantial matter of dispute. 

This brief view of the court, which might be 
easily extended, is enough to impress upon you 
the care that is taken to arrive at certainty both 
in regard to the law and the facts. The effect 
upon the orator is the only thing which we are 
to bear in mind. If the judge were at liberty to 
follow his own discretion, or conscience, or fancy, 
it would be, in some respects, a better day for 
public speakers ; but the times are as little favor- 
able to the revival of the Roman prcetorship as 
of the imperial rescripts. 

Let us now imagine a cause ready for argu- 
ment before a tribunal composed of a few grave 
and learned men, appointed to hear and decide 
in all questions of law, where life, property, rep- 
utation and personal freedom are involved, and 
convened for the purpose at stated seasons. 
What style of address wouJd be the most fitting 
for the whole occasion ? What character would 
be stamped upon forensic eloquence by the very 
persons to whom it appeals ? 

The judge will inspire, or rigidly exact from 
the advocate, the same severe adherence to what 
is material to the question, which he has imposed 
upon himself. He wUl as soon admit a laxity in 



THE PROFESSION AND THE TRIBUNAL. 97 

practice, as vagueness or irrelevancy in the argu- 
ment. And this severity will be as unlike as 
possible the cold, captious refinements of merely 
scholastic reasoners, occupied with mystical ab- 
stractions and verbal tactics. This severity is 
exercised for the very reason that some important 
matter is in dispute, and that strictness both of 
investigation and argument is essential to a full 
elucidation. The ends of justice are thought to 
be subserved by precision and formality. It is 
clear, then, that a lawyer is not to speak that he 
may entertain the judge ; nor is he to think a 
moment of persuading him to give a favorable 
opinion. He is not to appeal to private feelings 
of interest or resentment, or suppose that elo- 
quent declamation about right and wrong will 
give any force of sanctity to his claim. He is 
not to attempt to make judges reverse thek de- 
cisions, or treat those of their predecessors with 
disrespect. The whole inquiry is, — what saith 
the law? And in pursuing it, he may employ 
analysis and statement, illustration and argu- 
ment, to give information and effect conviction. 

If, then, juridical discussion is thus hedged in ; 
if the atmosphere within its borders is to be kept 
forever at so mild a temperature, and the sky to 
be always cloudless and serene, what place is 
there for eloquence with its tempests and light- 
nings ? Of what use can it be ? The answer to 
these questions shall have a distinct place. 
9 



JUDICIAL ORATORY. 



Many persons seem to think that no speech 
can properly be called eloquent which is not 
fitted to excite the passions, — that is, to move 
and persuade ; just as many persons hold that 
no writing can properly be called poetical which 
does not abound in lofty and brilliant diction 
and in florid ornaments. The better idea seems 
to be that any discourse, which can with propri- 
ety come under the notice of rhetoric, is eloquent, 
if it be adapted to our purpose. The understand- 
ing needs one kind of eloquence for impression 
as decidedly as the affections require another 
kind for agitation. This distinction, though 
most natural and simple, is too often over- 
looked. 

I have sought in vain for a word or phrase 
that would adequately characterize the style of 
eloquence that best becomes the discussion of a 
pure question of law. I thought of didactic. 
This would express a part of its quality, and 

[98] 



JUDICIAL ORATORY. 99 

yet nothing exclusively its own. Moreover, the 
term would scarcely be respectful to the court, 
and would better describe its own addresses than 
those of the advocate. I thought of argumenta- 
live eloquence ; but it would not do, because this 
term applies to popular, persuasive speeches as 
truly as to those addi-essed to the bench. Ers- 
kine with his juries, Demosthenes stimulating 
the people to resistance, Ames defending the 
British treaty, have more or less of the popular 
element in their appeals ; but they are all the 
time establishing propositions the most distinct 
and pertinent, by proof upon proof. Of course, 
different occasions and subjects admit of and 
demand a difference in the manner. It must be 
granted that sometimes the argument is so incor- 
porated with persuasion that no separate appeal 
to the feelings is called for ; and this may explain 
the want of discrimination which leads men to 
consider a discourse as wholly of one character, 
merely because that character is to them most 
prominent and peculiarly attractive. 

Let us try to distinguish some of the proper- 
ties of law eloquence. Generally, as might be 
expected, it is marked by calmness, by a firm, 
steady march to its object, by a composure which 
a mastery of the subject and the gravity of such 
investigations would ordinarily inspire. 

It is marked by distinct order. It observes 
relations and dependencies among the successive 



100 JUDICIAL ORATORY. 

details of proof, till the great proposition which 
they are establishing is reached. So natural is 
the disposition of every part, that both the 
speaker and his hearer always feel secure that 
they are moving in the direction they started 
with and towards the object they set out for. 
The words are chosen which give the best light, 
and for that reason only. They are arranged, 
too, with a single regard to the same effect. 
There cannot be too much light if it fall truly on 
the object. 

This eloquence is further marked by force, 
direct force, augmenting at every step, though 
never vehement in the sense of moving the pas- 
sions, but impressing thoughts on the mind with 
dignified, masculine energy. 

We may add to these very obvious properties, 
those of warmth and beauty. As these may be 
rather unexpected in connection with eloquence 
of such a character, some explanation shall be 
given. 

As we said before, some persons think that a 
man cannot reason and be eloquent at the same 
time. Acuteness of judgment seems to imply, 
and a connected view of arguments to require, 
coldness and austerity. They will admit as 
readily as any one that such men as Shakspeare, 
Milton and Burke are safe authorities in their 
estimates of facts, of characters, of society, of 
human life, of good morals and prudent conduct. 



JUDICIAL ORATORY. 101 

111 these and numerous other respects, they were 
not deceived or distracted by their ardent or im- 
aginative natures. Still, there is an indefinite 
notion that such natures are adverse to sober, 
protracted, involved exercises of the reasoning 
faculty. They must depend mainly on inspira- 
tion or intuition, and leave to other, perhaps 
inferior, minds the hard, patient struggles with 
difficulty. 

Here it seems to be taken for granted that 
what is difficult to the inferior mind is out of the 
province of the higher ; when it might have been 
as reasonable to suppose that the man of genius 
would, by a process of his own, find the work to 
be easy as well as congenial. We must settle 
questions of this kind by observing the different 
constitutions of men's minds. If a merely sen- 
sible man should try to be impassioned and 
ornate, he would probably fail both as an orator 
and a logician. If a man of at all a poetical 
spirit should try to make a statement or argu- 
ment with a resolution to shun every poetical 
expression and influence, he would be sure to 
think feebly and inefficiently, and to do incalcu- 
lable harm, by his self-denial, to the point he 
wished to carry. If it be in the nature of a man 
to reason with ardor, and to set forth his reason- 
ing richly and vividly, he should do so, and he 
will reason w^ith the greater power for it. There 
is no natural hostility between the operations of 



102 JUDICIAL ORATORY. 

the mind, or the modes of presenting truth. If a 
man has the taste to discern what manner of 
speaking becomes the occasion, and if his mind 
is so balanced that his powers can act together, 
he has no cause to fear that any faculty will 
come into action unseasonably, nor will he meet 
with a single occasion where it will be necessary 
to suppress his natural temperament. 

Thus if he is of a fervid spirit, it will not flash 
or consume ; but, ever burning deeply under- 
neath, it will quietly pervade his gravest dis- 
course, just as it mellows the voice or serenely 
lights up the face. So if he have imagination, 
it will help him in arguing, not merely by ani- 
mating and sustaining him in his severe task, 
but sometimes by suggesting on the sudden a 
short, lively image, that illuminates far and wide 
the difficult ground he has just travelled over or 
is now entering upon. More especially will it 
serve him by making him contemplate the most 
abstract thoughts which he is putting together, 
as something visible, and capable of being made 
so to others. The structure that he rears, so 
sure and simple in its foundation, so compact in 
all its parts, so perfectly arranged that the depen- 
dence and use of each part are seen, is not the 
work of mere sagacity or ingenuity. It could 
not have been formed by the most diligent arti- 
san, building with another's materials and accord- 
ing to another's model. It could not have been 



' JUDICIAL ORATORY. 103 

put together by one who has no idea of a perfect 
edifice before he begins, but slowly joins piece to 
piece and raises pile upon pile, no matter how 
weak or misshapen the mass, if he only uses up 
his' materials and labors all the time he contract- 
ed for. Perhaps it is not going too far to say, 
that to make a perfect argument, — an argument 
that has beauty to satisfy the taste, as well as 
conclusiveness to assure the judgment, — re- 
quires creative power, an eye that can see far 
and rapidly, and search through and illuminate 
a chaos, and bring a fair and stable world into 
view from what seemed vacancy or disorder. 

How is it that lawyers of equal learning and 
prudence differ so much in the impression they 
make? Men go from a court of justice, after 
witnessing a severe contest, and in reporting 
their opinion of the arguments, they will say that 
one of the advocates had no fault that they can 
precisely define, and yet there was a prevailing 
heaviness or a want of impressiveness. He did 
not take in the case as a whole, which he had at 
command, but appeared to be forever occupied 
with separate details. He certainly said every 
thing that could be said, with the utmost fidelity, 
and might even have spared much. He was 
intelligible and unexceptionable, and probably 
will gain the cause. But you should have heard 
the other. The moment he rose, in reply, it 
seemed as if he were commissioned to revive a 



104 JUDICIAL ORATORY. 

fatigued audience. In a few words he made 
his opponent's argument clearer than he him- 
self had done ; and then, with the utmost 
simplicity, directness and strength he stated 
his own grounds. The hearer was disposed, at 
first, to pity him for the perplexed and bound- 
less range of argument or examination which 
he must travel over in his reply merely. But 
the field was soon brought within very moderate 
limits ; easy paths were opened through all 
that was obstructed, and a warm light fell 
upon the ground as the clouds were scattered 
from over it. 

If such illumination had been poured upon us 
in a work of elegant literature, we should not 
have scrupled to ascribe it to the magic of 
poetry. We should have admired the facility 
with which a maji of genius could bring directly 
before our eyes a distinct picture of what 
seemed too vast, or involved, or abstract for 
human comprehension. We should not have 
heard a word about the hostility between the 
logic of a reasoner and the inspiration of 
genius. 

And there is no such hostility. I have been 
describing nothing but the triumph of genuine 
argumentative eloquence, — an eloquence of a 
high order and influence, but unassisted by a 
single outbreak of passion. That a great orator 
of this class has in him the elements that con- 



JUDICIAL ORATORY. 105 

stitute the most impassioned speaker ; that he 
is capable of the highest eloquence in the 
popular sense of the word, I am well convinced. 
I have only shown how skilfully he could 
adapt his discourse to the halls of justice. He 
had no occasion there for that popular argu- 
mentative eloquence which, besides working 
conviction, is to give a tone to an assembly ; 
which is to instruct the ignorant, kindle the 
indifferent, convert the prejudiced, conciliate the 
inimical, and impel the friendly. He needed 
only the succinct, elastic, transparent eloquence 
which makes bright the severest and least in- 
spiring truth, and does it justice. 

To any who still think that something is 
wanting to the orator who is merely addressing 
the court, we may urge that there is a fountain 
of eloquence in the very purpose and bearing 
of every legal argument. A contest upon a 
simple point of law must involve to some ex- 
tent the question of right and wrong ; the duty 
of respecting our neighbor's claims ; the neces- 
sity of subordination. It must involve vindi- 
cation and protection. The judge himself must 
be eloquent, when he speaks in behalf of public 
morals, liberty and order. The hearty lover of 
his profession must be eloquent when he sets 
forth the harmonious system of the law, its 
oversight of human affairs for the quieting of 
disputes, and the kind equality with which it 



106 JUDICIAL ORATORY. 

extends sec-arity to all. Every cause in which 
a lawyer is engaged is of more or less import- 
ance to every one of us. And if he feels deeply 
that he is bound to do not only a duty to his 
client, but also an office in behalf of the public 
well-being, he will come to every legal discus- 
sion as to a contest for right, which the law has 
provided for, and which he is to bring under 
its protection. What power of an orator may 
not go forth to such a battle ? 

Having thus considered the opportunity for 
eloquence of a certain character, in an address 
to a court upon a point of law, it remains to 
speak of addresses to a jury upon the facts to 
which the law is applied. Here, I beheve, 
every one admits that there is room for very 
decided demonstration of the oratorical power ; 
and it may be worth while to enumerate a 
few particulars relating to jury trials which are 
more obviously favorable to a popular kind of 
eloquence than a mere legal argument can be. 

And first, here are twelve men selected from 
among our neighbors to inquire into and settle 
a dispute about facts. They are free from the 
caution and self-restraint which professional 
habits and experience are supposed to form in 
the judge and the lawyer. As sensible and 
free-minded men, they are listening to the 
parties, as each tells his story, and receiving 



JUDICIAL ORATORY. 107 

impressions from, the appearance of witnesses 
and the manner in which they give their tes- 
timony, very much as they would do if they 
had stopped in the streets to hear the mutual 
altercations of two men who had fallen into 
some sudden difference. 

The question before them we shall suppose 
to be one wholly of facts to be established by 
witnesses who are present. This view is the 
most favorable for my purpose, and sufficient 
to give a good general idea of the juror's rela- 
tion to the advocate. Think, then, of the interest 
which all men feel in facts, occurrences, trans- 
actions, situations, whether real or fictitious. 
We are called to take part in the fortunes of 
men, which we have experienced or may expe- 
rience ourselves. We are studying their char- 
acters, motives, temptations and devices. We 
are sharing their hopes and fears, their disasters 
and success, and observing the connection of 
circumstances to learn how events were brought 
about. There is none of the difficulty to be 
overcome which attends the effort to interest 
others or ourselves in the discussion of abstract 
truth, or in the application of general principles. 

A lawyer never forgets that the juror brings 
into court the common susceptibilities of men; 
and he may make a very justifiable use of this 
knowledge in various ways. Thus in respect to 
the evidence, — much of it is not of so direct 



108 JUDICIAL ORATORY. 

and positive a nature, as to satisfy a man whom 
a scrupulous and sceptical turn of mind has 
accustomed to demand a sort and degree of 
proof in regard to matters of fact, which in- 
stinct or experience has taught most persons not 
to expect or need. To a man of right feelings, 
who takes practical views of things, who has 
some knowledge of the heart, and can judge 
of subtile motives and intentions from slight 
actions and words, very indirect evidence, and 
very insufficient too if the circumstances are 
taken separately, may have a brightness and 
conclusiveness more satisfying than round, posi- 
tive assertions that things were thus on the 
contrary. This, I admit, implies sagacity in the 
juror, but a sagacity that owes as much at least 
to feeling as to reason. — Moreover, he is often 
called upon to make allowance for the infirmi- 
ties of men. The transactions of perfectly 
honest persons may have a doubtful appearance, 
which may be easily cleared up to a man of 
honorable, generous sentiments, who can feel 
and explain embarrassments which no positive 
testimony can be brought to remove. 

Then with respect to the witness himself, — 
though a perfectly honest man, his statements 
may be open to unfavoraljle construction. Yet 
a juror, who can feel the difference between the 
reserve or vagueness of a conscientious and of 
an artful witness, will become an interpreter for 



JUDICIAL ORATORY. 109 

him who cannot explain himself fully, and trust 
him the more for the scrupulosity, hesitation, 
and sometimes even for the inconsistency, which 
have startled the wary and uncharitable minds 
of others. — The same discernment will serve to 
detect the flaws that lurk in the most plausible 
testimony. 

Such are some of the qualities in jurors on 
which the advocate relies to bring them to his 
side. They are as much bound as the court 
to judge rightly of what is submitted to them. 
But obviously in many cases a just judgment 
depends upon their sympathies being won. 
The facts are of a nature to move the feelings. 
Their truth, importance and bearings are best 
perceived by the feelings, and could not justly 
be weighed without them. This appears, for 
example, in cases where the jury are to award 
to the injured party what are called his dama- 
ges. They are not only to determine his right, 
but to see that the violation is repaired. In a 
court of law, this is to be done by an equivalent 
in money ; and where the wrong to be redressed 
is merely to one's property or lawful gains, this 
may be a simple and adequate reparation. 
But there are injuries to the person, to reputation, 
to family honor and peace, to which a different 
and less definite measure of wrong and redress 
must be applied, and which appeal immediately 
to our moral judgment and profoundest sym- 
10 



110 JUDICIAL ORATORY. 

pathies. Still, as the only compensation which 
the law provides is in silver and gold, the dignity 
of the claim and the magnitude of the grievance 
may seem to be less imposing. But we cannot 
suppose that all who resort to this remedy expect 
a full equivalent for their wrongs, or would ex- 
pect it from any award to themselves, or from 
any punishment of the wrong-doer. The verdict 
is to place them before the world clear of all im- 
putation. It is to measure the damages by the 
character and circumstances of the parties and 
of the injury. It is to set a stigma on the 
offender ; and the punishment it inflicts may be 
the one that he will most feel. Nowhere, surely, 
could the orator have a finer armory of eloquence 
for offensive warfare. 

Once more, it is before a jury that the public 
offender is brought, in order that the public peace 
and 'security may be vindicated. And it is to a 
jury that the citizen of a free country looks for 
protection, if ever the hand of government lies 
heavy on him, and judges, leaning to the side of 
party or of power, arc ready to sacrifice him who 
is obnoxious. An honest man has nothing to 
fear for liberty or life, so long as he is sure of a 
fair trial by his equals, and has a right to defend 
himself in the face of the world. 

There is, then, an access to the feelings and 
discretion of jurors, which is and forever ought 
to be closed when we approach the judge. They 



JUDICIAL ORATORY. Ill 

are to be addressed in innumerable cases, and to 
answer as fathers, husbands, friends, as men of 
honor and generosity, as men of business well 
acquainted with common life, as men responsible 
for the republic, and, as it were, personally inter- 
ested in the security of every individual and of 
the state. 

I do not mean, by this view of jury trials, that 
the whole is an affair of the feelings. The argu- 
ments upon facts are sometimes the severest and 
most difficult that can task the human powers ; 
and the truth cannot be reached but by the 
keenest search and the rarest powers of distin- 
guishing and combining. In the preceding re- 
marks, I had a particular object in view ; and I 
thought it would be best accomplished by con- 
sidering a jury trial in only one aspect. 

From what has been said, the general differ- 
ence between the style of eloquence suited to a 
court and to a jury is obvious. In addresses to 
the bench, it is grave, composed, luminous, com- 
pact. It is under such restraints as a man's good 
taste will impose, when he is in the presence of 
his acknowledged superiors, who are to decide 
upon the strength of his reasoning, and Avho have 
made such questions as he is investigating the 
serious study of their lives. The style of this 
eloquence is masculine, earnest and impressive ; 
but it is also temperate and even subdued ; — 
not, however, because the subjects are chilling, 



112 JUDICIAL ORATORY. 

nor because of the timid injunction of the great 
Athenian court, that no orator should attempt 
' to win the favor or move the affections of the 
judges ;' but because the whole business is in- 
vestigation and reasoning to ascertain principles 
and their bearing. There is no longer a dispute 
about facts. We have left the public mart, the 
business of daily life, the passions and conten- 
tions of men. We have gone up from the noise 
and dust of battle, to consult the sages and ora- 
cles of wisdom, who are to declare, from venera- 
ble records, whose the right is. 

In addresses to a jury, the style of eloquence 
is various and often popular. We have shown 
that jurors are and must be open to influence. 
The lawyer regards them as men with whom he 
may converse freely and even passionately about 
his wrongs and his perils. He will spare no 
means to give their minds a favorable leaning 
towards himself. He will aim directly at a per- 
sonal influence. Every principle in their nature, 
that affects men's common opinions and con- 
duct, he will strenuously appeal to, that he may 
bring them to his side and set them against his 
adversary 



THE ADYOCATE AND THE DEBATER. 



In this country, lawyers constitute a distinct 
profession, and they have their professional 
schools. Their education is plainly a matter of 
public concern. The case is somewhat different 
with our statesmen, if indeed we have any per- 
sons amongst us who can properly be called 
such on account of their making politics their 
exclusive vocation. They certainly do not con- 
stitute a profession ; and their preparation, what- 
ever it may be, is either made indirectly, or, if 
purposed and systematic, it is altogether a pri- 
vate affair. 

It should seem to be the general sentiment 
here that a laAvyer's course of studies, his labo- 
rious contests in public argument, his habitual 
attempts to convince learned men on the bench 
and influence sensible and practical men on 
juries, are an ample preparation for debating 
the questions that occupy a political assembly. 
They are regularly educated for their profession 
10* [113] 



114 THE ADVOCATE AND THE DEBATER. 

as the occupation of their lives and their means 
of subsistence. The business of legislation is 
rarely undertaken by them but for a season, and 
generally for the honor it confers, or for the 
pleasure of going into new scenes and forming 
new connections, or for acquiring influence in 
their profession, or that they may render in their 
turn the service which all able men owe to their 
country, but which is usually found irksome 
enough to make even the ambitious willing to 
divide the honor for the sake of escaping the 
labor. But whether prepared for the place or 
not, and whether fond of it or not, very many of 
them find their way into our legislative bodies. 

In the course of time, should the number of 
wealthy men be increased, so that promising 
young heirs can forego lucrative employments 
for the sake of gaining honor and power in pub- 
lic stations ; — or, at any rate, if the openings to 
political life should ever become narrower and 
more difficult than they now are, it may be that 
the education of political men will not be a 
merely accidental and subordinate affair, — to 
be commenced, perhaps, when a man is called to 
public life ; — but that we shall have a class of 
statesmen as thoroughly bred to their business as 
lawyers to theirs. 

Whether this would be for the better or the 
worse is not the question now. As the profes- 
sion of the law is to a considerable extent the 



THE ADVOCATE AND THE DEBATER. 115 

school of our statesmen, let us consider whether 
the style of eloquence that is suitable to the bar 
be suitable also to a deliberative assembly. Or, 
in other words, is there any important distinction 
between legal argument and political debate? I 
think there is. 

In debate there is altogether a freedom in the 
manner^ in the choice of arguments, in the sug- 
gestion of motives, which would be out of place 
in addressing the bench. The debater's object 
is to persuade, to influence men's minds upon 
matters of opinion; — not to bind them reverently 
to an existing law, but to consult with them 
upon the need of new laws, and upon the repeal 
or modification of old ones. No precedents, no 
ancient opinions, no settled customs have any 
authority in this assembly, farther than they 
approve themselves to the judgment. Any man 
here may rise to overthrow the decrees of remote 
ages, to disabuse the public mind of errors that 
time had seemed to make too sacred for scru- 
tiny, and to insist as roughly as he will upon the 
demands of a new era for change and progress. 

And this is his duty, if it is his thought. 
It is expected of him. His opinion and reasons 
are wanted. He is to take just such a view of 
every question as he sees proper to take, and 
present it to others in any way that he thinks 
the best to make impression. He may bring 
arguments from every quarter ; from poets and 



116 THE ADVOCATE AND THE DEBATER. 

philosophers ; from men of business and men of 
speculation ; from history and fiction, and from 
the treasury of his own invention and fancy. 
He may appeal to men's experience, to their 
fears, their pride, their infirmities, their affections, 
their self-love. Only imagine to yourselves a 
body of independent law-givers, assembled for 
the very purpose of forming and carrying an 
opinion, and bound to act by their own feeling 
or conviction of what is best, — some doubting 
and therefore to be assured ; some reluctant and 
therefore to be drawn over ; some ignorant and 
therefore to be informed, — and you see at once 
the orator's boundless field of influence. More- 
over, it is a popular influence, for he has many 
minds to act upon, and must touch some com- 
mon spring of action if he would gain opin- 
ions. Ail the resources of genius, and of his 
art, and of his knowledge of men are to be 
brought out and applied, that not one hearer 
may escape him. 

Let him not think that he has done enough, 
though he should be able to say with perfect 
truth : — 'I have spoken wisely and prudently 
to these men. I have proved every important 
point and set it beyond controversy. I must 
have satisfied the good sense of every man who 
heard me, and convinced him what patriotism 
and common honesty require of him.' Some 
other disputant, better acquainted with the spirit 



THE ADVOCATE AND THE DEBATER. 117 

of a popular assembly, and who knows that ad- 
dress will often do more than a safe judgment 
or thorough political knowledge, will leave you to 
fight manfully for the truth and, admire your 
generous assurance of a well-deserved victory, 
and content himself with seducing your supposed 
converts to put faith in him, by the blandish- 
ments, the fair promises, the fond appeals to self- 
love, which often make men prefer an error that 
flatters and pleases to a truth which annoys. 
To have sway, then, you must be able to turn 
against this man the arts which he uses for 
power. Your main reliance here is upon your- 
self. There is no judge in the seat of authority 
to check the disputant, and sum up the case 
clearly and honestly after the confusion of a long 
and stormy debate. Every voter is to follow his 
own pleasure ; and every speaker must do what 
he can to determine his choice. 

To have sway, the orator must be something 
more than what we call a man of ability. He 
must have a talent for his place. A rude street 
orator would manage a mob far better than 
Burke could do. A popular preacher or advocate 
might thin the seats of" the senate house. 

Many an able lawyer may not have learned 
till he became a legislator, that his mind was 
wanting in flexibility ; or that its first habits 
were so entirely its masters and so necessary to 
its successful labors, that it was but little under 



118 THE ADVOCATE AND THE DEBATER. 

his control when called to a new sphere of ac- 
tion and responsibility. The cast of his mind 
has become thoroughly legal. He wants that 
easy versatility with which some, even ordinary 
men, direct their attention to many pursuits with 
equal success. Moreover, he misses that protect- 
ing genius which hovers over the veteran in the 
courts, to save him from surprises and brow- 
beating, from the assaults of clamorous preju- 
dice, from the charge of public apostasy, and 
from awkward revelations of his private history. 
In a court of justice he is perfectly at home, in 
his natural atmosphere, and smTOunded by ob- 
jects that long custom has made important to 
the free and prosperous exercise of his powers. 

He has been used to argue questions of pri- 
vate right, and finds it hard, in the senate, to 
spread his mind over the broad and various 
ground of public expediency. He has been ac- 
customed to reason upon indisputable principles 
and to feel himself safe in old decrees. Now, 
he is called to give equal respect to general con- 
siderations of policy, which have no warrant but 
such as they may find or create in each man's 
judgment or opinion. In a court, he felt his 
character and interest somewhat involved in car- 
rying every point he maintained. But now this 
selfish stimulus must give way to what, after 
deliberate consultation with his fellows, he thinks 
to be most prudent. 



THE ADVOCATE AND THE DEBATER. 119 

Such are some of the distinctions between the 
legal and political orator ; and such, I believe, is 
the familiar theory respecting their influence. — 
As you will certainly find that some of the 
greatest statesmen have also been the gTeatest 
of lawyers, you are to consider whether they 
became politically eminent in spite of their pro- 
fession, or by virtue of it, or (to be perfectly safe) 
whether it was not, in theh case, a wholly indif- 
ferent matter. 



ELOQUENCE OP THE PULPIT. -REASONS 
FOR PREACHING. 



Men are not willing to think that any means 
of moral influence could be a wholly new thing 
in the world, at so late a day as the birth of 
Christianity. The need of such an influence 
had always existed, and we naturally look for 
early attempts of some kind to meet it. No 
doubt there had been such attempts, and it 
would be pleasing to trace them if we had a 
series of facts to guide us. Meanwhile, we 
may suppose the patriarch to be the religious 
teacher of his family and dependents, though 
it be also his oflice to superintend the sacrifices, 
the processions, and the sacred observances 
generally. The legislator inserts moral and 
religious truths among the ordinary provisions 
of his civil code. Poets and wise men are, 
in their various ways, instructors of the sim- 
ple or rude barbarians. There is reason to 
believe that the world has never been left 

[120] 



REASONS FOR PREACHING. 121 

without some to insist upon the claims of 
conscience and the distinctions between right 
and wrong. 

Still, we are far from anything like a regular, 
recognized system, of teaching religious truths 
to the people. 

In the ancient schools of philosophy, there 
were eloquent instructors in ethics, and many 
inquirers into divine mysteries. But generally 
the instruction was addressed to a select num- 
ber of followers, and, probably, even to them 
rather as part of a learned education, than as 
furnishing rules and motives of conduct. How- 
ever this may have been, it would not have 
been safe for the philosopher to denounce 
openly the gross faith and practice, which, 
under the name of religion, had become con- 
secrated in the eyes of the people. 

Amongst the Jews, there had been of old 
time a kind of public preaching which, in its 
design at least, resembles our sermons. I refer 
to the exhortation, warning and instruction, 
which the prophets addressed to their coun- 
trymen as religious beings. The prophetic 
eloquence has never been equalled for the 
tenderness of its persuasion, and the terrors of 
its remonstrances and denunciations. 

In the later days of the Jewish state, we hear 
of synagogues, in which, besides stated worship, 
the law was read and expounded, and religious 
11 



122 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

instruction given to the people at appointed 
times. This service resembles, if it may not 
be considered as the model of our Sunday 
observances. 

These brief notes suggest that what we call 
preaching may have existed, in some more or 
less perfect form, for ages before the coming 
of Christ, and therefore may be considered as 
a natural method of supplying a public want, 
at a time when there could have been but few 
readers. We may add, as somewhat confirm- 
ing this view, that stated preaching was an 
ordinary means of upholding and spreading 
Islamism, both under Mahomet and the early 
caliphs. 

The history of the pulpit belongs to other 
hands. I may say, however, that if Christian 
preaching have not the stamp of absolute 
originality, yet certainly this fourth department 
of oratory, known to us by the name of Pulpit 
Eloquence, has a character and importance 
which distinguish it from other modes of reli- 
gious instruction, and authorize us to consider it 
as peculiarly our own. It is associated with 
all our modern history and improvement. It 
has its profession of orators, with a new sys- 
tem of rhetorical preparation. It has its ap- 
pointed occasions and its peculiar audiences. 
It has created for itself schools of learning 
never surpassed in other professions. And, 



REASONS FOR PREACHING. 123 

finally, it has established a distinct and eminent 
department of literature. 

The institution of public preaching is easily 
accounted for at the first promulgation of the 
new faith, when there was no press to spread 
the religion, and when indeed the multitude, 
whom it specially sought out, were generally, 
uneducated and must have depended for know- 
ledge very much upon oral teaching. The last 
reason applies also to the attempts to intro- 
duce Christianity among the ignorant heathen 
of our own time. But why does the custom 
continue and prevail in the most enhghtened 
countries of the earth, where the Bible may be 
in every man's hand and most men can read ? 
Is the preacher as necessary now, and will he 
continue to be as necessary as he once was ? 
Is it not from habit and fashion, or from love 
of excitement in a throng, that we still require 
the sermon to follow our acts of devotion on 
the sabbath, and still choose our minister with 
no small regard to his powers as a speaker 
and writer ? 

These questions will be sufficiently answered, 
if it should be made to appear that the pulpit 
has been established and continued as a means 
of i?ioral and religious influence, just as natu- 
rally and necessarily as the occasions of secular 
eloquence exist for their peculiar purposes. The 
lawyer and debater are as well known among 



124 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

US as they were in the most enlightened eras 
of paganism. All the improvements which 
distinguished modern society have not made 
their services superflaous. We might, indeed, 
have prophesied that it would be otherwise. 
The probabilities were not small that as men 
became more and more readers -and thinkers, 
public oral addresses would be less required. 
But we do not find it to be so, though we 
may perhaps find that the character and style 
of these addresses are somewhat chansred. 

The idea that increased knowledge, whether 
secular or religious, from reading, will make 
preaching less important, must take for granted 
that the adoption of one means of improvement 
tends to lessen the value of another and a very 
different means. It probably supposes, too, 
that, since we may study other things to ad- 
vantage in books and by ourselves, so the 
whole subject of religion may be equally well 
studied in private. Hence we may gradually 
be required to admit that the design and uses 
of Christianity are limited and calculable ; so 
that after a certain amount of investigation we 
shall have learned our lesson and done with it, 
as with any course of preparatory training. 
That is, — the more the race is elevated by 
moral and intellectual influences, the less con- 
cern they have with the means. These grow 
obsolete ; and our enlarged capacities and 



REASONS FOR PREACHING. 125 

multiplied desires must seek new objects and 
methods. 

We need not try to exhaust the concessions 
which such a theory requires. It is enough for 
our purpose that the Christian world has thus 
partaken a different view of the matter, and 
will probably entertain it till changes come in our 
moral condition which are now only hoped for. 
But suppose it to be true that in this age of read- 
ers men do go, very generally, to books for light 
upon many religious subjects, and for increased 
animation to their Christian motives and hopes. 
Yet the fact must not be overlooked that they 
do so under constant excitement and direction 
from the pulpit, — that its voice is sounding as 
loudly and earnestly in our learned ears, as 
once in those of the unlettered converts of the 
first age. What would become of our religious 
inquiries if the voice ceased, we cannot say. 
They might be continued in the schools of 
philosophers. 

Under any circumstances, however, it is idle 
to suppose that the great body of men do or 
can prosecute theological reading to any con- 
siderable extent. And yet, in advanced society 
and amidst the ceaseless flashing of ideas and 
theories, the minds of even the unlearned are 
made inquisitive by all that surrounds them, 
and restless and unhappy under the perplexities 
of partial knowledge and eager curiosity. They 
11* 



126 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

are in peril from the errors of belief and the 
vacancy of scepticism. Here then we see the 
necessity of a wise and eloquent clergy in an 
improved age, and growing out of its improve- 
ment ; a necessity as strong at least as could be 
felt in the rudest times. 

But leaving considerations like these, which 
relate wholly to differences in the state of so- 
ciety, — the true ground to be taken is that the 
usefulness and necessity of preaching are found- 
ed in the nature and objects of Christianity, and 
in the common condition and wants of men. I 
shall speak of one or two points belonging 
to this class of reasons, and I select those 
which are connected with the purpose of all 
eloquence. 

The first point is that the religion is intended 
to affect human conduct. The preache^r aims 
just as decidedly at influence over his hearers' 
actions as any other orator. Something is to 
come of the sermon ; something is to be done. 
The method, too, is the same. An effect is to 
be produced by presenting adequate motives 
to the excitable, impressible nature of man. 
Christianity is as far as possible from being a 
merely solitary, sentimental, speculative faith. It 
is a power which overlooks all human affairs to 
control them. We cannot place a man, or 
society, or their interests in a single point of 
view, in which eloquence of any kind would be 



REASONS FOR PREACHING. 127 

useful, and not find that the eloquence of Chris- 
tian teaching would be useful too. If truth 
needs illumination, if duty needs impulse, if 
doubt craves assurance, if good and evil uni- 
versally, here and hereafter, in respect to in- 
dividuals or masses, call for consideration, 
judgment and action, and these are proper sub- 
jects of eloquence of any kind, so are they 
proper subjects of sacred eloquence. 

If, indeed, religious truth were still the im- 
perfect attainment of the retired philosopher of 
pagan antiquity, or the glorious vision only of 
poetical imagination and fervor, it might be left 
to the dreams and speculations of each individ- 
ual, or at best be taught to the initiated few 
in the school of the sage. But Christianity has 
gone forth as an authoritative declaration to all, 
laying obligations on all, presenting good and 
denouncing evil to all. It has brought all to- 
gether upon a great common concern. Then it 
is clearly a proper subject of eloquence the most 
popular, and demands it as a most natural 
means of power. 

But how can this be ? Eloquence leading to 
action, popular eloquence too, without votes or 
verdicts ? Certainly. What eloquence can be 
more justly called popular than that which pre- 
sents a common and exciting motive to a throng 
of hearers ? That the motive is spiritual, that 
it is higher than one whose whole range is the 



128 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

present world and the present hour, makes no 
difference to the orator's disadvantage, except 
that it creates for him some peculiar difficulties. 
It is true, that the action contemplated is not 
the same, nor does it show itself in the same 
way, as in secular bodies. We are not assem- 
bled to deliberate and decide upon our obliga- 
tions as Christians, or the formation of Christian 
character, as we meet and decide upon public 
measures. Properly speaking, the hearers are 
not engaged upon a strictly joint interest ; they 
are not looking round for signs of agreement 
and sympathy. Yet the interest is common to 
all, of equal moment to all, and so felt to be by 
the orator and by every hearer. It Vvdll not be 
disputed that the action contemplated is strictly 
individual, and not for to-day or upon the spot 
merely. It is habitual action, proceeding from 
an ever-living and ever-active principle. This 
must be admitted, with all its supposed disad- 
vantages to the orator. Some, no doubt, will 
say that the preacher's aim and therefore his 
eloquence must be vague and dreamy, with no 
direct, external, joint interest to concentrate and 
quicken his powers. Others will think that 
it is enough that conscience, memory, affec- 
tion, hope and fear are as open to him as to 
any other orator, or to any class of writers. I 
here leave this topic, as my object is merely to 
show that the eloquence of the pulpit has, in 



REASONS FOR PREACHING. 129 

principle, the same basis with every other de- 
partment. 

Another argument for the same thing, is that 
the truths, which are the preacher's subjects, 
need impressive inculcation. Unlike the ques- 
tions that occupy other assemblies, his topics 
are of equal importance every hour of a man's 
life. The people are not convoked occasionally 
to consider them ; but the sermon is a frequent, 
stated address, and generally connected with the 
regular seasons of public worship. All is calm, 
orderly, expected, consecrated. The hearer is, 
in general, not even a doubter, but comes to 
receive. In this state of things, the first idea 
that occurs is, that a subject of equal importance 
at all times must grow lifeless ; and yet, if it is 
at all times of infinite importance, it must be 
perpetually insisted on. Hence, regular preach- 
ing is established ; but, from its uniformity, the 
preaching is in danger of becoming as lifeless as 
the subject. With these antithetical difficulties 
and motives before us, we might be in doubt 
what course of teaching should be appointed. 
But the custom of the church for so many cen- 
turies is reasonable evidence that the proper 
means have been applied to meet the difficulties 
and secure the advantages that might be ex- 
pected. The only thing required is, that the 
preaching be impressive ; and to make it so, we 



loO ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

must withhold no outward help which belongs 
to so great a public ministration. 
* There can be no doLibt what men generally 
think of the custom. They show by their regu- 
lar attendance their belief that, however well 
they may inform themselves in their faith by 
private study, they are not likely to do it with 
so direct reference to character and conduct, 
the impression will not be so strong and fixed, 
as if they also came frequently together as 
worshippers and were afterwards instructed by 
an eloquent preacher. They have reasons for 
this conviction. There is impressiveness in the 
mere assembling and decent attention, an ac- 
knowledgment of the importance of the occa- 
sion. A sort of public sanction is given to it. 
A refined, spiritual exercise is confessed to have 
weight and value among the pressing engage- 
ments of common life. . The religion is seen to 
have a social quality, not only in leading men 
privately to confession of faults, to the confiding 
of doubts, and to expressions of sympathy and 
mutual encouragement, but to united prayer in 
the congregation and respectful attention to 
public religious instruction. 

In whatever view we take of man, he appears 
to need assistance of some kind from others, and 
this holds true even in that most personal con- 
cern, the religious preparation of the heart. 



REASONS rOR PREACHING. 131 

We gain something from seeing the operation 
of religious faith in another human being ; the 
direction it gives to his faculties, the color it 
takes from his temper of mind, and which it 
imparts to both his hopes and his fears. It is 
no small, and it is no degrading help which the 
presence of a good man lends to others. His 
fervor, his confidence, his humility gives them 
strength. To be near him in the preaching of 
his daily life and the fervid persuasions and 
warnings of his discourse, is to be in the way of 
having faith warmed into action, and conscience 
brought to a test which we may have shunned 
or never known. 

This is not our fond, weak over-estimate of a 
mere fellow-creature, but our submission to a 
natural influence over the heart. We are not to 
go to church that we may catch sympathy and 
fervor from a crowd, which we shall never ex- 
perience elsewhere ; or to suppose that secret 
meditation will be less necessary because we 
can so easily obtain thoughts and impulses from 
a popular preacher. One great office of preach- 
ing is to follow up with every hearer his private 
meditations and his opening affections, and give 
him motive and aid to carry on by himself the 
work which each one has to do for himself. 
But we wish the preacher to be kindled by the 
presence of numbers like any other orator, be- 



132 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

cause there is a power in eloquence thus inspired 
which is sure to go to the heart, and which 
could not be dispensed with, even if it were 
possible for a friendly and gifted teacher to 
say the same things to every one in private, 
which he addresses to the congregation from the 
pulpit. 



ELOQUENCE OP THE PULPIT. -THE 
PREACHER AND HIS AUDIENCE. 



Let us consider the opportunity which the 
preacher enjoys for the exercise of his art ; and 
first, what may be caHed the external peculiarities 
of pulpit oratory. 

The place in which he meets his hearers is 
consecrated. I do not mean that the prayers of 
priests and people have given a sanctity to wood 
or stone, or that man should tremble before the 
work of his own hand, and deem even the vilest 
criminal exempt from human punishment, if he 
can but flee to the precincts of the temple and 
lay hold on the horns of the altar. The place is 
holy because of the purpose to which it is de- 
voted, of the services performed and the Being 
invoked there; — that is, it is sacred only in our 
minds. No matter whether we meet in the old 
gothic cathedral, or in the humble edifice of the 
puritan, which has little besides its meanness to 
distinguish it from ordinary buildings ; — the 
place has its sacred associations, and suggests 
12 [133] 



134 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

religious thoughts. Such was paradise to Adam., 
When he is about to be driven from the garden, 
his first feehng is that he is to leave the sacred 
haunts where he had communed with God. 

« TMs most afflicts me, that, departing hence, 
As from his face I shall be hid, depriv'd 
His blessed countenance. Here I could frequent 
With worship place by place where he Youchsaf'd 
Presence divine ; and to my sons relate,-^ 
*' On this mount he appeared ; under this tree 
Stood visible ; among these pines his voice 
I heard ; here with him at this fountain talk'd." ' 

' It was the advice of a holy monk to his friend 
to perform his customary devotion in a constant 
place, because in that place we usually meet 
with those very thoughts which possessed us at 
our last being there.' * In this way, our religious 
exercises, however interrupted and distant from 
each other, become united and almost one act, 
and the religious sentiment a continued, grow- 
ing devotion, instead of a solitary, violent and 
passing impulse. 

But, besides the place, we have set apart a day 
for the special observance of religion, — a stated 
season, frequently returning, to which our minds 
are habitually directed, and for which we may 
make preparation. We are not taken suddenly 
from the common pleasures and cares of the 
world, to engage in services as opposite to many 
* Southey's Life of Wesley, Vol. I. p. 55. 



THE PREACHER AND HIS AUDIENCE. 135 

of them as rain to drought. We have time to 
lay by all that has disgusted or wearied us in 
our ordinary life, and to enter with freshness and 
composure upon spiritual exercises. 

In the next place, contrast the audience with 
those you are acustomed to meet in many other 
places ; the seriousness, the silence, the heartfelt 
or the habitual respect for the speaker, who alone 
conducts the services, with the turbulence and 
rancor which are often seen in other assemblies. 
In the church we have no controversy. The 
prophet is unanswered ; — not because he has a 
message from heaven which may not be gainsaid, 
for he is as uninspired, and may be as fallible as 
any one he addresses : but we think it more be- 
coming in the house of God that the errors, if 
they be such, of the preacher should be heard, 
than the errors, as they may be, of many excited 
disputants. No evil has arisen, that we know, 
from deferring controversy till some other time. 

This exemption from all liability to answer on 
the spot for what the preacher says, is undoubt- 
edly unfavorable to such excitement on the part 
of the audience, as we feel in a court or legisla- 
tive assembly, where our spirits may be kept up 
for hours by the succession of speakers and their 
personal altercations, and by the interest we take 
in the success of some particular individual, to 
whom accident, friendship, party-feeling, or it 
may be his very eloquence, has made us wish 



136 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

well. But such excitement and interest are not 
expected or desired in churches. They are alien 
to the purpose of preaching. 

The clergyman's freedom from controversy, 
when in the pulpit, may make him indolent. 
He has one motive the less for putting his powers 
to their utmost stretch, and using only prudent 
argument and guarded language, — inasmuch as 
a watchful antagonist is either not by, or else 
not at liberty to expose his fallacies or his imbe- 
cility. Some may suppose that a feeling of 
security like this is an inducement to men of 
moderate abilities and intrepidity, to choose the 
clerical profession rather than one which is 
strictly polemical. They first form an exorbitant 
idea of the talent for extemporaneous dispute ; 
and when they see many, who give no evidence 
of this talent, do very well as preachers, they are 
disposed to think the profession a quiet and un- 
distinguished calling, in which ordinary men find 
shelter and able men are buried. A lawyer, they 
will tell you, is sure to be thoroughly tried by 
the close, keen combat to which he is subjected 
with his opponent, before sensible jurors, experi- 
enced judges, and his scrutinizing brethren within 
the bar. If he wants ability, he cannot escape 
detection. And yet no one will dispute that 
second-rate men have been successful lawyers. 
The fact seems to be, that the quantity of talent 
to be found in any profession, depends upon the 



THE PREACHER AND HIS AUDIENCE. 137 

inducements it holds out to talent. Worldly 
gains and splendor, together with the liberty of 
doing very much as we please, belong to the 
secular professions ; and I apprehend that more 
of our race are disposed to do good to society, 
with profit and convenience to themselves and 
heir families, than from motives wholly disin- 
terested. As for the exercise of ability, I believe 
there is as much room for it in a sermon as in 
addresses of any kind. And if there be a smaller 
amount in the clerical profession than in the 
others, we must not seek the cause in the temp- 
tation, which an entire exemption from contro- 
versy presents to the timid and weak to become 
preachers. 

The advantage which this exemption gives the 
clergyman, is obvious. There is no interruption 
to impair the force of his arguments, statements 
and appeals. He marks out his course to suit 
himself, and follows it from choice and with con- 
fidence. The dissatisfied hearer will yet listen 
to the end, if it be only to confirm himself in his 
opinion; and, in listening to the end, he may 
find weak places in his own faith and strong 
ones in that he dissents from, which he had 
never been aware of, and which he might have 
been slow to acknowledge even to himself, if the 
light had first broken upon him in a heated 
controversy. 

Thus the preacher's privilege appears to be 
12* 



138 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

unequalled of giving entire effect to his views ; 
of making the whole impression which he has 
any right to demand for them ; of bringing his 
hearers' minds, however slowly, into a state fa- 
vorable to the points he is urging. And let him 
not boast of his privilege and influence, nor abuse 
them, for he is doing good or evil for both worlds. 
If his audience have consented to forget in his 
presence the pride of debate and the joy of vic- 
tory ; if they have drawn off their thoughts from 
objects that fill or divert them in the week, that 
they may give him their whole -minds ; if habit 
has taught them to look upon him as separate 
from common life, and almost as a holy man, so 
that all he says in the church or in private, seems 
entitled to a peculiar deference ; — his responsi- 
bility is only made the heavier, and the lesson 
of prudence and humility should be sooner learned 
from it, than that of pride or ostentation. 

There is one point more in which the assem- 
bly of worshippers differs from almost every 
other. They are not only to abstain fromx every 
expression of disapprobation, but also from ap- 
plause. We are told that in the early church 
the people were encouraged to applaud, in order 
to signify to the preacher that they understood 
what he was about. But it so often happened 
that their admiration was misplaced or disorderly 
that the custom fell into discredit. For a differ- 
ent purpose, we presume, some gentle murmur 



THE PREACHER AND HIS AUDIENCE. 139 

or hum of favor was allowed to breathe and 
swell in the English churches as late as the close 
of the seventeenth century. We hear nothing of 
it now. The world is supposed to be growing 
wiser when it suppresses some of its fashions. 
But the evidence seems imperfect when we think 
of those which succeed and of many which re- 
main. Applause in churches would now be 
esteemed anything but a compliment to the 
speaker, or an evidence of good taste or intelli- 
gence in his hearers. This is in no respect a 
proof that we are a more devout people than the 
Christians of former times; though it certainly 
argues a more spiritual and informed mind to 
listen silently to grave discourse, and to preach 
fervently without the slightest sound of favor 
from the audience. 

I have thus attempted to point out some of 
the circumstances under which the pulpit orator 
meets his hearers. In some sense, as we have 
seen, he addresses a popular assembly, since all 
are upon a level, for the time at least, and equally 
involved in the responsibilities and issues of the 
occasion. But, on the other hand, he is not 
appealing to them to accomplish any private pur- 
pose ; to carry a point that is in any way con- 
nected with his ambition or gains, or indeed with 
any interests but those of his hearers. His whole 
object is their good. He regards them as indi- 
viduals, and converses with every man's heart, 



140 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

as if he had come there to address a particular 
hearer. He regards them in every relation of life 
and in every variety of mind or condition, — as 
members of families and subjects of the state ; 
as laborers, as men of wealth and power, as 
ignorant and enlightened; and tells them that 
there is but one test of virtue, one perfect wis- 
dom, one essential happiness for all. 

Whatever he may have to contend against in 
the listlessness produced by regular, stated re- 
turns of the days of meeting together, or by the 
frequent recurrence of similar topics of discourse, 
is at least compensated by the motive of their 
assembling. He cannot look at a single object, 
or call up one ordinary thought that is naturally 
associated with the place and the occasion, 
which will not remind him of his duties and 
strengthen him for their discharge. In some 
other assembly, the speaker may be exhilarated 
by the sight of new faces. A new throng has 
come that has never paid him homage ; and he 
burns for fresh incense. But here, the same eyes 
are bent upon him year after year, or the vacant 
seat tells him of one gone to his account. The 
monition never fails him that there is enough 
here for ambition, and love, and self-devotion. 

If he should ask himself what, in point of fact, 
is the popular estimation in which preaching is 
held, he will find nothing to depress him, nothing 
to turn the scale in favor of other classes of ora- 



THE PREACHER AND HIS AUDIENCE. 141 

tors. What public meetings are better attended 
than those of our churches ? What exercises 
are more respected or more generally exciting ? 
It is only on rare occasions that you see the gal- 
leries of the hall of legislation or of the court- 
room crowded. It is next to impossible to collect 
an audience for the orators who deliver the stated 
discourses before and in behalf of some charita- 
ble institution, unless indeed there is reason to 
expect some extraordinary display of eloquence. 
We must get up splendid military processions 
and secure the attendance of the chief men of 
the state, before we can prevail upon any con- 
siderable number of citizens to assemble and 
hear a discourse, once in a year, upon the Decla- 
ration of our Independence, and the weighty 
consequences of that measure. Even the thea- 
tre, established expressly for public amusement, 
and certainly not a very expensive mode of con- 
tributing to it, has but a fluctuating popularity, 
as uncertain as fashion itself. 

The case is far otherwise with the public ex- 
ercises of Sunday. The attraction of oratory is 
far less needed to secure attendance. We be- 
hold, as it were, a larger family assembled, as a 
matter of course, about a domestic altar. And 
not only the weary laborers, who may rejoice in 
a day of rest and meditation, but the rich, the 
learned, the powerful, are regular, attentive, 
respectful hearers in the house of worship, — all 



142 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

equally ready, of their penury and of their abun- 
dance, to cast in their offerings for the support 
of ministers, the erection of temples, and the 
wider and more efficient diffusion of religious 
truth. 



ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. -THE 
PREACHER'S RESOURCES. 



In treating of this and the other departments 
of eloquence, I have tried, when speaking of a 
profession and its topics, to consider them only 
so far as they related to the orator. My attempt, 
I fear, has been little successful. It would 
probably be still less so with such a subject 
before me as the resources of a pulpit orator, did 
I not mean to limit myself to those only which 
exist in his own mind, and to a single view only 
of these. 

I have sometimes thought that, among many 
serious persons, there was an indefinite notion 
of some peculiar responsibility and peril hanging 
over the preacher, not merely in the choice of his 
profession, but also in his use of and his reliance 
upon his own gifts. Pride and self-confidence 
would be so unseemly in an office like his, and 
self-abasement so natural a consequence of 
proper views of his duty, that some have even 
insisted that the voice should not speak but in 

[143] 



144 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

conscious obedience to a mysterious summons, 
and that preparation for his work would be as 
unsuitable in a modern divine, as in the first dis- 
ciples when they were sent forth to preach. I 
do not refer to extreme views like these, which 
probably exercise but a limited influence in 
practice. Indeed, your own observation of the 
diversity in preachers may have satisfied you 
that they generally feel at liberty to preach 
according to their gift. But a certain vague 
feeling on the subject in some minds, arising 
perhaps from the supernatural origin and im- 
posing character of the religion, may justify a 
brief inquiry. 

What, then, are the resources within him- 
self which the preacher may rightfully employ? 
How far may he exhibit his character and genius 
and rely upon his own powers, in delivering a 
message from God himself? Did the promulga- 
tor of the relisfion intend that its first influence 
and effect should be to break down all that is 
peculiar in men's minds, all that gives individ- 
uality to their temper, taste and views ; to spread 
through the world one unvarying spirit, which 
should make the actions, the language, the ex- 
pectations of each one, in all that concerned in 
any way his religion, precisely like those of his 
neighbor ? Was it thought that the revelation 
was so vast and overpowering, that the mind 
must needs sink under it; that instead of bring- 



145 



ing human genius boldly to the study and eluci- 
dation of truths which were so far beyond its 
unaided reach, we had nothing to do now but to 
contemplate and obey in spiritual silence, as the 
passive recipients of a sublime but oppressive 
revelation ? 

We have reason to think that this was no part 
of the design of Christianity, both from its illus- 
tration in the characters we are familiar with in 
the New Testament, and from the obvious ten- 
dency and effect of its instructions, its examples, 
and its unfolded hopes. Instead of bearing 
heavily upon a man's sense of intellectual force, 
or imprisoning the imagination, it has made 
him altogether more ethereal and soaring. And 
where, as we believe, its genuine influence has 
reached the heart, it has led to profounder in- 
quiries into man's nature, condition and pros- 
pects, than were ever instituted before. Instead 
of inducing a spirit of devout quiescence, it 
should seem that we had been roused up by it to 
the use of all that is good, and, in our perverse- 
ness, of all that is bad in the form of persuasion 
and argument, to bring the great subject home 
to every one. 

Then, again, it is so far from making the 
human character tame and monotonous, that it 
requires and promotes the utmost strength of 
purpose and energy of enterprise, and offers the 
mind such objects of thought and desire, as en- 
13 



146 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

courage and almost compel it to act nature out 
to the full. You find as strong and as large a 
variety of genius in the bards and prophets of 
Judea, as in the poets of Greece or of England. 
They are full of human affections and passions ; 
they are warmed and spiritualized by the glories 
of the outward world ; yet their language is that 
of men who felt themselves to be always in the 
divine presence. Of the apostles, who received 
the first influences of Christianity, and lived, all 
but one, in the society of their master, no one 
w^as required to part with the natural temper 
of his mind, except so far as it was bad. One 
preaches with the learning and ingenuity of a 
philosopher, and gives vent to deep human feel- 
ing in warm human speech ; and another Avins 
men by affectionate persuasion, encouragement 
and counsel. 

We see at once the importance of leaving to 
the preacher the free exercise of his natural pow- 
ers and feelings; for with him, as with every 
other orator, eloquence must come from our 
common nature. The great preacher is not 
formed in his library or in the cloister. Devo- 
tional sentiment and sincere purposes of doing 
good to others, are not all that is required to 
make him eloquent, though they are potent in- 
spirers of eloquence. He must join to these the 
power of presenting truth and motives in the 
way that we require. If he has the true spirit of 



147 



a benefactor, he will be so far from thinking that 
the greatness of his theme disdains human aid 
or human weakness, that he will spare no honest 
use of his art to bring it down or near to every 
mind. He will never forget our necessities. He 
will humble himself to meet them. If he should, 
or, rather, if he could lay by our common nature 
when he comes to address us, what connection 
would he have with us ? Through what inlet 
shall he find a way to our hearts ? He may have 
the gift of tongues, and yet know little of the 
action of men's minds, or of the topics best fitted 
to make impression, or of the manner in which 
alone objects can be effectively brought before 
the imagination. 

We are right then in expecting from the pul- 
pit orator as much of natural character, of getiius, 
or of any proper resource, as a man would show 
on any subject and occasion, where he was thor- 
oughly in earnest, and wanted to produce an 
important effect. We are right to expect in 
sacred eloquence as great variety of style in 
speaking and writing, corresponding to the sub- 
ject and the orator's temperament, as in any 
kind of public discourse. We know that the 
religious principle is allied to the whole spiritual 
and intellectual nature of man ; and it is but 
natural that when we treat of religious subjects, 
we should address ourselves to his whole higher 
nature. We know that men need to be drawn 



148 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

even to those things which most concern them ; 
and we are therefore glad to see the highest 
popular endowments and accomplishments 
brought to the service. 



LITERARY TRIBUNALS 



When we hear it said that the character of 
a literary work is established, that it is a classic, 
a part of permanent literature, we are naturally 
curious to learn what is the authority that de- 
termines the point. From what quarter does 
the decision proceed ? The common answer is, 
Pnblic Opinion, the general sense of mankind. 
Johnson, speaking of Gray, says, 'In the char- 
acter of his Elegy, I rejoice to concur with the 
common reader ; for by the common sense of 
readers uncorrupted with literary prejudices, after 
all the refinements of subtilty and the dogmatism 
of learning, must be finally decided all claim 
to poetical honors.' Let us inquire into the 
authority here set up. 

We first take it for granted that an opinion, 
whether held by an individual, by a school, or 
by the whole world, has no weight in settling a 
principle, except so far as the judge is competent 
to pass upon the matter, and unless he has given 
13* [149] 



150 LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 

to it all the consideration it requires ; and that 
in no case does the decision make a thing to 
be true or constitute truth, though it may prop- 
erly be cited for what it is worth, in evidence 
or proof. 

Public opinion, however, differs from the opin- 
ion of one man or a few in this, — that it may 
settle questions, though it may not settle princi- 
ples. Here, for a time at least, its power seems 
next to infinite. It differs in another respect; 
for, however wrong it may be, it is always 
instructive, and the more instructive the longer 
the error has prevailed. There "can be but little 
that is spasmodic or capricious in a case like 
this ; and, probably, there is nothing of what is 
commonly called accidental. We may profita- 
bly study laws and tendencies of the mind when 
we carefully observe the origin, growth and 
tenacity of errors which have taken possession 
of whole communities. We may find in them 
an explanation of many obscurities which per- 
plex the history of institutions and manners, 
and also of the direction which passionate 
public effort has at times taken. An equal 
obstinacy of error in an individual, might 
properly be imputed to diseased or perverted 
intellect, — to mere idiosyncrasy. — At last, the 
cloud, which had hung over the world, breaks ; 
and then we may study the mind farther, in its 
return to truth, or, quite as probably, in its 



LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 151 

conquest of higher truth than had ever been 
grasped before. Under no circumstances, then, 
can it be wise to speak lightly of that undefined 
power called public opinion. 

The question of competency in respect to the 
tribunal still remains. No one, we suppose, will 
contend that public opinion is equally authorita- 
tive in all cases. Where an appeal is fitly made 
to our common instincts, affections, wants, — to 
our common experience, — the response of intu- 
ition and sympathy will confirm it, and no one 
thinks that other evidence is needed to warrant 
his receiving the decision. But there are mixed 
cases, not less in common life than in literature, 
which have strong points of interest for very dif- 
erent classes of men. Among these are some 
points of a strictly popular character, which 
account sufliciently for the part that the peo- 
ple take when the time comes for their making 
up an opinion, and for acting, should that course 
be necessary. 

Thus in a political revolution ; — a nation, 
we will suppose, has for ages been kept in 
ignorance, accustomed to do and bear wrong 
for the glory of one man or of a few ; and to 
regard such a life, which seemed beyond remedy 
or alleviation, as the natural doom of the great 
mass of mankind. In the course of time an 
indignant spirit is seen growing among the 
people. They begin to dream of a power 



152 LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 

within them, and of something they might do 
and enjoy if they were once rid of this old 
oppression. The moment for resistance comes 
and a successful blow is struck. In all this we 
may have discerned only the mighty will and 
power of the whole people, and we may think 
the change well enough accounted for by the 
exertion of their power. But we cannot doubt 
that some other agency was all the time at 
■work, which had nothing of a popular element, 
and without which the great enterprise might 
have utterly failed. We must not overlook the 
machinations or the prudent counsels of a few, 
who could read men and the times well, take 
advantage of accidents, seize the moment when 
the feeling of resistance could be safely changed 
to a purpose, and then carry a whole nation into 
an entirely new condition, — one far beyond 
what it had ever dreamed of. We must not 
overlook those from whom the new popular 
sentiment began, and by whom it was promoted 
till men could understand the practicableness 
as well as feel the need of a change ; by whom 
the rude energy with which the change began, 
was kept up in times of difficulty, and the spirit 
of the revolution itself so modified and regu- 
lated, as to become with safety a part of the 
permanent character of the people. 

Here, certainly, we have the expressed will of 
the greater number, and to a certain extent the 



LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 153 

fruit of an opinion formed by themselves upon 
a matter they could understand. Yet how 
much were they acting under a control which 
they did not comprehend or think of disputing. 
In literature, a considerable proportion of 
standard works are strictly popular and equally 
favorites with all classes of readers. There are 
national epics, national songs ; there are plays, 
fables and novels which have at once and for- 
ever taken possession of the hearts and memo- 
ries of the barbarian, the slave, the uneducated, 
of every man who could read or hear. No 
one waited for the sanction of a man of literary 
pretensions. Indeed, the highest critics are here 
found to be as good ' common readers,' as 
hearty lovers of the people's fare, as Johnson 
could desire. Surely this is a case where the 
popular suffrage has been fairly given, and on 
the side of good taste. Hence it may be sup- 
posed that the products of unquestionable 
genius and sincere passion must be marked 
with a simplicity and obviousness that will 
make them comprehensible by all ; that being 
the growth of nature they will be instinctively 
perceived and felt by the common nature in 
men ; and that the best criterion of literary 
excellence will be the consent of plain, un- 
sophisticated readers. So that if there be diffi- 
culty or mystery, it must be taken for a fault ; 
and scholars and critics are but magnifying 



154 LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 

their office and assuming importance to them- 
selves when they profess to discover anything 
in a general favorite which has not struck the 
mass of readers. 

We know that a writer of the highest genius 
is often a universal idol and deserves to be such. 
And we readily explain his popularity. Perhaps 
he is naturally fond of such images and rela- 
tions as are presented by daily life and common 
scenes. He gives us adventures and characters 
and changing fortunes, he delineates passions 
and motives which go directly to the heart of 
every man, and the more readily for the sin- 
gular completeness, warmth and simplicity of 
the composition. The tone of his reflections 
is gentle, kind and manly. He is a lover of his 
race with all their faults and almost because 
of their faults, bound up as they are with trials, 
weakness and sorrow. As the reader meets 
everywhere with something that harm.onizes 
with his usual feelings and experience, he is 
agreeably excited, without being aware that he 
is occupied with anything very new, or that 
requires capacity arid resources much beyond 
his own to produce it. If his natural feelings 
of wonder or his deepest passions are roused, 
yet, as no false stimulants are applied, he is 
moved in much the same manner that he would 
be by real events of an extraordinary character. 

The points of popular attraction might easily 



LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 155 

be multiplied ; but it is enough for our purpose 
that this poem, novel, play, history, or by what- 
ever name the book may be called, marked all 
over as it is with originality and profoundness, 
has yet a great deal that is obvious to every eye. 
Must we thence infer that popular admiration is 
evidence of the genius or art that pervades th 
work? Might not the same effect or equal 
delight be produced by ordinary writers with 
an attractive subject ? There can be no doubt 
that this wide-spread interest is in part owing to 
the power and skill of the author. The produc- 
tions of a great painter are not without effect 
upon the common eye, though it might be more 
gratified by a vast, gorgeous panorama. The 
simple and much-loved book, we may safely 
say, has enough for all. Nature or truth is the 
source of all the favor it enjoys ; but when can 
any man say that all the depths of nature have 
been sounded ? Have none found in the book 
more than its most palpable charm ? Is there 
nothing more to come to light ? It passes down 
to other ages. Its language perhaps is no 
longer spoken and it can no longer be in the 
hands of common readers. Yet the student, 
never weary of poring upon its wonders, thinks 
he sees in its unabated and even growing power 
over literature, something more than the mani- 
fest attraction that w^on the multitude at the 
beginning. He believes that what is least ob- 



156 LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 

vious in it is just as natural and true as what 
is most easily perceived, and far more precious. 
He sees in what is least obtrusive a beautiful 
exhibition of the man's peculiar spirit, the 
highest evidence that he could give of the 
power of genius ; and moreover, he is ready to 
predict that it is the very quality of his writings 
which in the end will have most effect on the 
literature of the world. In fine, he learns that 
a work of genius in literature, as in the elegant 
arts generally, must be studied patiently and 
long, if we would possess ourselves of the 
greater part of its highest merits, and make it 
a pleasure and blessing all our lives. He learns 
to think less and less of his first impressions ; 
and even the obvious practical benefit to be de- 
rived from it fades in the opening light of its 
nobler qualities and uses. 

Thus it is that a work such as we have de- 
scribed operates upon a variety of minds. The 
view here taken will not disturb the placid en- 
joyment of readers who are satisfied with the 
charm that plays on the surface or breathes in 
the air of a long-loved poem ; and the differently 
constituted reader, who likes to analyze his 
pleasures, may be allowed to think that he 
daily discovers a profounder import or a more 
subtile beauty. 

We have now considered the fortunes of a 
book acknowledged to be popular, and suggested 



LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 157 

that it may give higher pleasures than are com- 
monly received and hence have higher qualities 
than are commonly recognized. The presump- 
tion is not unreasonable that a book which is 
wholly unconsidered by the generality, indeed 
wholly unknown to them, may yet be among 
the highest and most influential in the nation's 
literature. Accordingly, we come next to writ- 
ings that have not the popular element, but are 
dark and difficult, and never can look for rank to 
general estimation. Of course we do not refer 
to works of science or profound learning. In 
respect to these, men are pretty generally agreed 
to surrender all questions of right and merit to 
the authority of the masters. We are grateful 
to them if we can but comprehend the results ; 
and when this seems impossible, we readily take 
them upon trust. 

We will not attempt to enumerate the varie- 
ties and causes of obscure communication of 
thought. Sometimes it seems wilful; sometimes 
it shows want of training and practice ; some- 
times it is owing to the nature of the inquiry 
and the peculiar temperament or habits of the 
thinker. Let us suppose a retired, abstracted 
person, ever pondering remote truths, and fond 
of studying man in general by profound and 
severe researches into his own mind. Perhaps 
he lights suddenly upon principles and, in his 

happy contemplation of them, he does not 
14 



158 LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 

dream how hard it may be to bring them within 
the comprehension of minds that have not his 
activity and grasp, or that quick sensibility 
which makes hints himinous and expands them 
readily into full dimension. Besides then the 
novelty and strangeness of his views, which may 
well prevent general sympathy, his method of 
laying them before us is unfavorable to impres- 
sion. He utters perhaps the greatest thoughts 
with a brief familiarity that excites no suspicion 
in most minds how vast is the content of these 
few words, or with a bold incompleteness that 
confounds while it animates the reader, and 
which often proves that the writer himself has 
not yet perceived the whole importance of his 
own discovery. There can be no dispute that 
part of the difficulty of comprehending him is 
owing to himself; but probably under any cir- 
cumstances he would not be generally under- 
stood. At any rate, if we would not be losers, 
we must take him as he is and make the most 
of him we can. 

Of one thing we may be very sure, that a 
writer of this character little troubles himself 
to learn whether he shall have an audience. It 
is enough for him that he has thoughts which 
must be followed out and in some way recorded, 
though the toil be solitary and his conceptions 
be doomed to long obscurity. Possibly the in- 
terpretation may come ; and he can wait as 



LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 159 

patiently for it as the world. But who shall be 
the interpreters ? He has thus far educated 
none for his purpose. Yet some may be growl- 
ing up round him, — his unknown disciples, — 
impatient like himself of drowsy acquiescence in 
systems and methods of inquiry that did their 
work ages ago without raising up worthy suc- 
cessors. They turn to the strange light with 
instinctive alacrity. The seed that slept in 
crypts or deep in the soil is at last visited by 
the life-giving power. The utterer of cloudy 
oracles has at last touched ears that can hear. 
And why should not these peculiar spirits be 
cared for ? Why have not they as good right 
to be fed and expanded by the only influence 
that can reach to the depths of their nature, as 
the rest of the world to be ministered to by such 
instruction as they need and can profit by ? 
This may look at first a little exclusive and 
selfish. The few favored ones are shutting in 
the truth from the common eye and touch, and 
making it the property of the master's inner 
school. No, indeed. They are preparing to 
teach it. They will by-and-by proclaim it from 
the house-top. Though working in the spirit of 
their great friend, they can come nearer than he 
to the common wants of their kind. No truth, 
no power can be kept from men's hands and use 
if they are but able to receive it. It will find 
its way down to thousands and do them good, 



160 LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 

though they may never know its source or 
history, or even be able to say precisely what 
it is. 

By one form or another of obscurity, difficulty, 
mysticism, we may in part explain the want of 
popularity of philosophers and poets who are to 
some men the highest of studies and delights. 
Nobody is to blame for this state of things ; and, 
unpromising as it may seem, we may possibly 
owe to it an amount of mental activity and in- 
dependence, and a direction of human inquiry 
that the world could ill have spared. 

It seems, then, that we leave the highest criti- 
cism in literature in very few hands ; not, how- 
ever, in the hands of monopolists or exclusives, 
but of the only true radicals, — the men who aim 
at realizing great ideas, and who believe that 
much remains and ever will remain to be learned 
and told. What in fact is the power exercised 
by those whom we have presumed to regard 
as our highest literary judges, and how is it 
esteemed by the reading world generally ? The 
critical decrees or awards, which bear the strong- 
est marks of trustworthiness and stability, are 
not made up in a self-summoned conclave and 
thence promulgated. There is no club or set 
into which some are chosen while others are ex- 
cluded. There is no forcing of dogmas or pecu- 
liar sentiments on men. The silent current of 
individual opinion makes its way, and readers 



LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 161 

fall ill with it because they like it. They are 
pleased with the impulse and guidance that 
direct them to hidden truth and beauty ; and 
they cannot with so much propriety be said to 
obey the decree of a master as the decision of 
their own instructed minds and natural feelings. 
That the impulse came from others is no dis- 
credit to those who receive it. It is no more 
derogatory to human nature or the order of soci- 
ety that the influence of a few teachers is so 
great, than that men should be endowed with 
unequal powers or possess unequal opportunities. 
This influence is natural and inevitable. 

If indeed there were an instance to be found 
of a long-continued, general dissatisfaction with 
the clear opinion of those whom we venture to 
hold up as the most competent judges in litera- 
ture and the arts ; if paintings, statues, temples 
and public grounds, which had been for ages the 
admiration of artists, students and cultivated 
men generally, were beheld with indifference or 
scorn by the multitude ; if the poetry which had 
held its place in every library and exercised in- 
fluence and authority upon all subsequent litera- 
ture, were not simply unknown to the great body 
of readers, but rejected by them as alien and 
offensive; — we might be shaken in our confi- 
dence in the opinion of those we had respected 
as masters. We might think that convention- 
alities or excessive education had done violence 
14* 



162 LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 

to natural feeling; that favor and blind prejudice 
had all along given currency to false pretension ; 
and that it was high time to let the unsophisti- 
cated into the judgment seat to break the spell 
of ancient error, and cleanse or sweep away this 
mass of antiquated impurity. But we find no 
such case ; no setting aside of what are called 
standard works by the popular voice. And how- 
ever we may seem to have undervalued this voice 
in regard to the higher points of art, we cannot 
but feel that a general acquiescence in the judg- 
ments of the more competent is a powerful testi- 
mony. The critic is strengthened, his decision 
sealed by the generality. He believes that he 
must have discovered in an author the marks of 
universal and immutable excellence ; for not only 
has he the consent of the few whose studies are 
like his own, but so far as the public attention 
has been drawn to such matters, the public feel- 
ing is also on his side. Is there no pledge in 
this, that the decision of such criticism is never 
to be reversed ? 

How much more respectable is the intelligent 
and even grateful acquiescence of less privileged 
readers, who have small means and uncertain 
leisure for liberal studies, than the rude dissen- 
sions among the most gifted and favored respect- 
ing the merits of those of their own craft, — the 
quarrels of the divinities at their banquet. All 
our boasted foundation of authoritative judgment 



LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 163 

would seem to crumble under our feet, if we did 
not see that the contents are often merely per- 
sonal, — often the struggles of schools or parties 
seeking predominance ; and that jealousy, ill- 
will, prejudice, exclusiveness or perverseness, 
enters more or less into them all. The substan- 
tial differences are slight. No principles are ap- 
plied, no whole view is taken of anything, and 
nothing is settled. The long-established name 
still burns serenely on high, and the bitterly dis- 
puted claims of later merit still have a patient 
hearing in spite of the tumult, and a heartier 
acknowledgment for the trial they have stood. 

Neither are we to be disturbed by the hon- 
orable differences among generally competent 
judges. Sincere and long-existing diversities of 
taste may greatly perplex the question of right 
and desert. The ablest, the most fair-minded, 
the most experienced in libraries and in literary 
opinion, are often at issue upon matters the most 
essential. A rare thing is it to find a man who 
can see and relish everything that bears the 
mark of genius. We limit our love more than 
our hate. We are inclined to take that for a 
blemish which departs from what we are in the 
habit of admiring, and forget that beauty has 
varieties not less than the mind. But after the 
fullest acknowledgment of human imperfection, 
and conceding all that can fairly be demanded 
to the uncertainty arising from differences of 



164 LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 

opinion, there cannot be a doubt that some 
works are established forever. "We all admit 
this immortality as to a few, and we all main- 
tain it, too, in behalf of our peculiar favorites. 
There is then some confidence in the ultimate 
grounds of human judgment. Taste, however 
defined, and however corrupted, capricious and 
narrow it may be, in some men and at certain 
periods, is yet an original faculty or operation 
of the mind, and has its laws or principles as 
fixed as those of any power, and requires, like 
any power, a thorough cultivation for a full de- 
velopment. So far from being a mere prejudice 
or fancy, its proper object is never-varying truth 
and excellence. Those writings, of whatever 
country or period, which have what for conven- 
ience we call the consenting voices of nations 
and ages, — however great the variety of genius 
or of the directions it takes, — have this testi- 
mony of sound taste in their favor, that they all 
conform to principles and feelings in men which 
promise in the long run to be uppermost and 
prevail. And the criticism that passes upon 
such writings owes all that can properly be 
called its authority to its detection and illustra- 
tion of this conformity. Then is it scientific. 
Nobody who understands it, questions it, be- 
cause it bears its own evidence that it is just. 

One effect of such views as these of literary 
tribunals may be to promote a good understand- 



LITERARY TRIBUNALS. 165 

ing, and kind, respectful feeling among all classes 
of readers towards each other. Another effect 
may be to suggest the evil that would fall on 
writers, and through them on letters, if the great 
body of readers were really made the arbiters of 
literary distinction. The temptation would be 
irresistible to write down to their capacity and 
tastes, which would be nearly or quite as fatal 
as to write up to those of others. All hope and 
love of the ideal must perish if the author or any 
artist measures himself and his work by the 
world without, and determines whether an object 
is attainable or desirable, by the number of those 
who will be likely to understand or care about 
it. Probably no readers, however humble, whose 
attention has been at all drawn to literature, 
would thank him for the condescension ; so 
much more agreeable is it to feel one's self grow- 
ing stronger by exposure to difficulties, and to 
the influence of grand thoughts intrepidly uttered, 
than to be nursed into a life-long imbecility. 



FORMS OF CEITICIi 



In c''>nsidering the different forms of criticism, 
we may take them in any order we please, since 
there ifs nothing in their own nature which makes 
one arrangement preferable to another. 

The first we shall consider is not so much 
marked by any specific distinction as by the 
manner of offering it. We refer to the private, 
confidential criticism we receive from a teacher 
or friend. Consider its advantages to an author 
prepaiing something for publication. The sug- 
gestions of another, perfectly unreserved sugges- 
tions, are made to him in secret, before he has 
committed himself to general readers, from whom 
he has little reason to expect clemency, and to 
whom apologies must generally be offered with 
an ill grace, since he comes before them as a 
volunteer, and ought to have prepared himself 
for the judgment which he knows he must en- 
counter and on which all depends. 

Then, although he has the opinion of but one 

[166] 



FORMS OF CRITICISM. 167 

man, yet the benefit is incalculable of knowing 
how some other mind is affected by what we 
have written, — that is, if we care to make im- 
pression. We are often but indifferent judges 
of our own work. Probably all ardent writers 
look at their composition as they would at their 
countenances in a mirror. It has been said that 
when a man is under the influence of some 
strong feeling which beams in his face, he can- 
not look at the reflected image, at the luminous 
and changing expression, without blighting it, 
and at the same time deadening the emotion 
which kindled it. He would turn hastily, impa- 
tiently to his own heart from what would strike 
him as a sort of mockery. Consciousness is 
enough for him. He knows not what the char- 
acter and expression of his face are. He does 
not care to know. They are for the use of 
others, who need them as interpreters of what is 
passing in his mind. 

It is much the same with animated composi- 
tion. The points of analogy are obvious. A 
fervid writer knows very little of the best proper- 
ties of his style ; very little of the secret of his 
most brilliant success. When, after the glow of 
writing, he looks to see how the written repre- 
sentation of his thoughts appears, he will hardly 
fail to be disappointed. Many become abso- 
lutely disgusted with a composition as soon as 
the work is done. They have not patience to 



168 FORMS OF CRITICISM. 

take it up again. And we would not have them 
take it up again, if we could always be sure that 
a man's honest, hearty words will be as complete 
and infallible interpreters to others, as the in- 
stinctive expression of the face is. Here it must 
be acknowledged that the analogy fails. There 
are deficiencies in the medium of language that 
do not exist in the medium of an honest counte- 
nance. And the writer may be as ill-qualified 
to note such deficiencies as to point out what is 
good in his style. Hence he will do well to con- 
sult a friend, who can take up the manuscript 
freshly, as a stranger, and advise him if anything 
be wanting to bring him into more perfect com- 
munication with his readers. Instances there 
are of eminent writers submitting their produc- 
tions to the judgment of very ordinary persons, 
to ascertain how they would be likely to affect 
the common mind. And few authors have 
passed under the supervision of skilful proof- 
readers at a printing office, without receiving 
gratefully the suggestions of such experienced 
observers of language and style. 

The consultation, here recommended, of some 
friend, is a matter of mere prudence and good 
common sense. The purpose is to set anything 
right that may be out of the way. But I am 
not unaware that some authors seek this consult- 
ation with their minds made up ; perhaps ex- 
pecting praise or encouragement, or, perhaps 



FORMS OF CRITICISM. 169 

wishing to know what can be said against them, 
without the least thought of adopting the friendly- 
hints they may receive. If your ill-fortune should 
ever bring you into connection with such persons, 
may you have the sagacity to discern their pur- 
pose early, so that you may shun a load of 
thankless trouble by courteously declining the 
office of literary adviser. 

One obvious advantage of this private criti- 
cism is, that it admits of the minutest strictures. 
There is leisure to correct the slightest inaccura- 
cies and to show the reason for the correction. 
In this point of view such familiar criticism is 
particularly important to those who are begin- 
ning to write, at a time of life when a habit is 
easily formed, when the merely mechanical mas- 
tery and application of rules may be perfectly 
acquired, and the perception of accuracy and 
fitness is readily developed. 

But it must be owned that with all the bene- 
fits of this friendly criticism, it is the most irk- 
some to which a writer, and especially a young 
writer, can be subjected. Other strictures may 
be more galling ; but I suspect there are none 
which a man bears less patiently, than those 
which require him to part with a favorite word 
or form of expression, or to alter the arrangement 
of sentences or clauses, or omit them altogether 
and perhaps substitute others. He may think, 
indeed, that no words in the language and no 
15 



170 FORMS OF CRITICISM. 

disposition of them are quite equal to a full ex- 
pression of his meaning ; but, as he has made his 
selection and done his best, he is unwillkig to 
have a contest with the critic after having suf- 
fered enough from his mother tongue. He won- 
ders that others do not and will not see things 
as he does. He would rather sacrifice the whole 
composition than make the proposed changes. 
The sorely tried writer of themes will beg the 
perhaps not less sorely tried reader to remember 
Quintilian's almost pathetic caution : ' Ingenia 
puerorum nimia interim emendationis severitate 
deficere. Nam et desperant, et dolent, et novis- 
sime oderunt, et, quod maxime nocet, dum om- 
nia timent, nihil conantur.' * 

This extreme sensitiveness is sometimes a 
mark of vanity or ignorance or obstinacy ; but it 
is often a proof that the sufferer sees something 
choice and pertinent in a word or arrangement 
which another is blind to. I regard a strong 
conviction in such matters as no faint evidence 
that one is in the right. And in such cases he 
will quietly follow his own judgment. If he 
aims at anything like true originality and excel- 
lence as a writer, he must have opinions of his 
own and adhere to them, though always with a 
liberal deference to those of others, who may 
have a right to his respect though not to his sub- 
mission. 

*InRtit. Orat. 11. 4. 



FORMS OF CRITICISM. 171 

I have one remark to make on verbal criticism. 
As this criticism is devoted to words, and some- 
times carried to great length when treating of the 
use of a mere particle, many are so inconsiderate 
as to think it pedantic and of little worth, a 
laborious trifling, a weak scrupulosity about 
accuracy in particulars that are quite insignifi 
cant. I am so far from admitting this that I 
consider the literary world and the cause of truth 
much indebted to those diligent philologists who 
devote their lives to settling the whole history of 
words and the true reading of doubtful passages. 
One may smile to see so much care and perse- 
verance devoted to so unostentatious an acqui- 
sition ; so many manuscripts ransacked and 
compared to determine some disputed point 
amongst scholars. But it is a much more pleas- 
ing view of the case that men are so differently 
constituted, that nothing will fail to have some 
who will give it heed. We want to know the 
truth in all things ; and if great anxiety is some- 
times shown to find out the truth in matters of 
apparently small importance, we have good 
grounds for believing that it will not be neglected 
in those of the highest concern. 

And what is of higher concern in literature 
than words ? Is it said, the thoughts ? But 
do w^e not think in words ? Do we not speak 
and write with them ? Do they not embody 
and preserve sentiments, images, feelings and 



172 FORMS OF CRITICISM. 

give them the best, we had almost said the only 
form, by which a stranger can become acquainted 
with them? Ask the logician what sign he 
thinks the most certain that a man has made 
progress in his art ; ask him what he holds to 
be the surest proof that a man thinks clearly 
and thoroughly; and he will reply, — the uni- 
formly just use of language. Ask the man of 
taste, the true critic, how he accounts for the 
great, the whole impression which he has re- 
ceived from a poem, and he will refer you, in 
no small measure, to words used with such 
force and appropriateness, that the slightest 
change would be as hurtful as throwing a false 
light on a landscape. True vigor of composition 
depends as much upon a pervading exactness 
in what some deem little things, as upon the 
reverent observance of great principles of style. 
Hence, the importance of verbal criticism ; — 
not that it can mechanically give us an insight 
into the life and beauty of words, or the power 
to summon the only fit ones to serve our pur- 
pose ; but that it draws attention to their 
importance and helps us to discriminate their 
significance. 

I pass to several kinds of criticism in which 
authors are not more interested than readers, 
and shall speak first of the ofTice of annotators. 
With one class of these we have no concern 
in the present discussion ; namely, those who 



FORMS OF CRITICISM. 173 

apply themselves to make an old standard work 
more complete and useful by adding to it, in 
the form of notes, anything important, con- 
nected with the subject, which the author over- 
looked, or, most commonly, which has come 
to light or been established since his time. 
You frequently observe such additions to sci- 
entific works, especially those which are pro- 
fessional ; and little more than learning and 
prudence is necessary to make a good annotator 
of this class. The critical notes to which I 
now direct your attention are designed to illus- 
trate literary productions, and they sometimes 
analyze an author's genius and writings, though 
this office is commonly performed in separate 
works. Such criticism requires research and a 
clear perception of all that is peculiar in the 
subject. The critic must comprehend the genius 
and temper of his author, the circumstances 
under which he wrote, the object he aimed at, 
and, as far as may be, his manner of life, his 
education and opportunities. He will often be 
obliged to consider him in connection with his 
contemporaries and his predecessors, and take 
a thousand small matters into the account, 
by which he may explain or reconcile what 
may appear to be anomalous or contradictory. 
Some critics of this class have such a re- 
markable power of associating themselves with 
their author, — though of a far distant country 
15* 



174 FORMS OF CRITICISM. 

and age, — that it seems as if they must have 
lived in his society. They do not appear to 
give us so much the deductions of long and 
painful inquiry and comparison, as that familiar 
knowledge which a man unconsciously acqunes 
of one with whom he has been on terms of 
intimacy all his life. I may mention as some- 
what illustrating this kind of criticism, that 
most original work, the ' Horse PaulinsB' of 
Dr. Paley ; a work that cannot be too earnestly 
recommended to those who are fond of reason- 
ing upon facts — of seeing historical truth 
clearly and beautifully established by a collec- 
tion and comparison of minute, artless and 
scattered particulars. So easily and simply 
is the work done, that the reader may not 
even stop to admire the care and skill with 
which the author has brought together his ex- 
amples of undesigned coincidence, from the 
Book of Acts and the Letters of Paul. He finds 
himself, he hardly knows how, the Apostle's 
companion and witness. 

To those who are familiar with the ancient 
classics, I need not mention the labor and acute- 
ness which the moderns have bestowed on them, 
to restore the text, and to illustrate passages by 
every help which could be drawn from history, 
geography, the remains of ancient art and the 
comparison of different authors, or of the same 
author with himself. 



FORMS OF CRITICISM. 175 

You know how common it is to publish the 
early English writers, and especia.lly the poets, 
with notes and illustrations of various kinds. 
A large amount of this proffered help is received 
with little gratitude or patience, and for good 
reasons. The explanation is often needless and 
ostentatious, or imperfect where it is really 
wanted. In many cases, the annotator so ex- 
ceeds his office as to give us a paraphrase in 
flat prose of some fine poetical passage, which 
has already revealed itself to us with full bril- 
liancy and warmth. Besides, how disgusting 
are the quarrels of these commentators with 
each other. What have we to do with Pope's 
contempt or Gilford's snarling, when we have 
spread out before us the minds of Shakspeare 
and Jonson ? It is bad enough to be obliged 
to turn our eyes from the text to learn what the 
note has to say of an obsolete term, an obscure 
allusion, or a corruption in the text ; but it is 
'intolerable to be summoned away by the critic, 
when we have no need of him, and when we 
may be sure to fi'id him ill-natured. 

The complaint here made is not against notes 
themselves, but the too common method and 
spirit in which they are written. The best way 
to study the early poetry of England is to read 
as much of it as we can in the best editions, 
and make ourselves familiar with the writers, 
and through them, as far as we may, with their 



176 FORMS OF CRITICISM. 

times. When we come to words or allusions 
that need explanation, we must consult glossaries 
and notes. Tyrwhitt's edition of the Canter- 
bury Tales, contains an excellent specimen of 
such works of reference. Let your first reading 
be from the simple text, as pure as you can 
find, so that the author may have one hope afc 
least of making his own impression. Be slow 
to look elsewhere for help till you feel that you 
must have it. It will be time enough to ac- 
quire a critical knowledge of perplexing and 
disputed passages, — and such are commonly 
of small importance, — when your enthusiasm 
for an author is so powerful and established 
that you are unwilling to remain in doubt as 
to a single word he has written. 

There is a class of works, not properly criti- 
cal, which may have some influence in keeping 
alive your interest in the earlier writings and 
assisting you to a better understanding of them. 
I mean those which give us familiar accounts 
of the times in illustration of books. They 
may not be very profound, and there is no 
reason why they should be ; but they are full 
of curious matter, derived from sources to which 
many would find it difficult to resort. Snch 
arc the collections of D' Israeli and Drake. Of 
a far higher order, but aiding us in a similar 
way, are Lives of eminent authors. I mean, 
real Lives, — not such faery creations as Mr. 



FORMS OF CRITICISM. 177 

Knight's Biography of Shakspeare, with here 
and there a fact or a fragment of fact floating 
in a sea of conjecture ; but substantial accounts 
of men of whom there is something to say. 

But to return to works that are more to our 
purpose, we next distinguish those, partly his- 
torical and partly critical, that treat minutely 
and comprehensively of the literature of par- 
ticular ages, or of some one depa^rtment of 
literature through successive ages. Here we 
are made acquainted with obscure authors, who 
yet had their influence in their day and upon 
the literature that followed. We have speci- 
mens of early writings, the very image of the 
times, which we might have sought in vain 
elsewhere. It is hardly necessary to say that 
the eminent have their naturally commanding 
position, and are better understood and valued 
for the close connection we are now able to 
remark between them and their inferiors, or 
between the days of almost barbarian and those 
of cultivated genius. This brief reference must 
serve for a large and important department of 
criticism, which, though in some respects allied 
to others that we have spoken of, has abund- 
ance of its own to demand and reward the most 
ample consideration. 

The gravest and most elaborate form of Criti- 
cism is seen in philosophical discussions of the 
subjects of taste, beauty, art, — such as Burke's 



178 FORMS OF CRITICISM. 

* Inquiry,' the lectures of Sir Joshua Reynolds 
and of Fuseli, Alison's ' Essays,' and some of 
Stewart's ' Philosophical Essays.' However 
these discussions may differ in points of theory, 
they all proceed upon the belief that whatever 
comes within the province of taste has fixed 
characteristics, distinct, recognized principles, 
which are more or less exemplified by great 
artists of every class, and may be constantly 
turned to use by those who are studying to 
make themselves perfect in art. They direct 
the mind to itself to examine what there is in 
its constitution or action, and abroad 'to con- 
sider what there is in the objects it contem- 
plates, on which the pleasures of taste depend. 
They teach us that beauty and sublimity are 
not things of custom, fashion or unstable opin- 
ion ; that verse and prose, the epic, the drama, 
the ode, are not arbitrary devices of this or that 
man to suit himself ; but that they are natural 
methods of answering to some want or some 
afiection. 

The tendency of this class of works is to 
give criticism an enlarged spirit, to make it a 
point of honor with those who undertake to 
pass judgment upon a book, to bring right feel- 
ings and well-ascertained principles to the ex- 
amination. Polite literature rises in dignity 
and value ; for the exercise it gives the mind 
is found to be more than a gay admiration of 



FORMS OF CRITICISM. 179 

elegance, of animated fancies, of the skill one 
shows in new contrivances of fashion or plea- 
sant departures from the useful and dull. Our 
favorite literature is to have some effect upon 
our tempers, opinions and course of life. So 
that a judicious adviser, if asked what books he 
would put into the hands of a young scholar 
to be of service to him in clearing his judgment, 
quickening his abhorrence of all that is indeli- 
cate or vicious, and elevating and multiplying 
his enjoyments, would name among the best 
those which explain the secret and influence of 
our literary pleasures, and which lead us to look 
as philosophers, as Christians and as men of 
feeling upon those high exercises of the mind 
which pass under the general name of taste. 

The last kind of criticism to be named seems 
to be meant for the whole reading world, but 
authors have in it a special and tender interest, 
however little it may profit or please them. I 
refer to literary reviews, a most miscellaneous 
order of criticism truly, if it can be properly 
called one order. Under this denomination you 
will find substantially all or nearly all the classes 
that I have already tried to discriminate, and a 
great deal besides. You will meet with many 
Articles of the highest ability and importance, 
which, so far from being critical in any sense, 
are independent discussions of subjects of any 
kind ; the title of a book, more or less connected 



180 FORMS OF CRITICISM. 

with the topic, being prefixed for form's sake. 
Our concern at present is, of course, with re- 
views considered as critical examinations of 
books. 

Within the present century, English Reviews 
have risen to an importance that they never 
knew before ; and the change is so striking an 
event in recent literary history, it is so truly a 
distinction of the age, that it receives great 
consideration from those who carefully observe 
the times. Instead of short analyses, summa- 
ries of literary news and slight strictures, re- 
views now contain elaborate investigations of 
the subjects of works, of the genius of authors, 
the principles of criticism, the faults and beauties 
of style and language. They note the changes 
in literature, the fluctuations of popularity, the 
influence of uncommon minds and striking 
examples. They aim at comprehensive views, 
by tracing the connection between the literature 
of different periods, and the origin and results 
of great literary revolutions. 

Here you see work for the profoundest and 
best-informed minds ; and many such have been 
willing to rest their influence on such notoriety 
and permanence as they could secure by anony- 
mous articles in a critical journaL They could 
not overlook the fact that many an able article 
must fade from .the general mind soon after its 
publication. But they seem to have thought 



FORMS OF CRITICISM. 181 

it worth consideration that they had the oppor- 
tunity to put men's minds in motion, and, 
especially, to give a direction to opinion upon 
subjects that already occupied the public. 
What if they could hope but little higher 
notoriety than that of being talked of while the 
topic was of immediate interest, or the number 
of the journal was still a novelty, — they yet 
thought it something to give an impulse to 
society which might last long after they were 
forgotten. 

However we may explain the improved char- 
acter of reviews and the disinterestedness of 
their contributors, there is no dispute that they 
are a part of our most popular, fashionable and 
instructive reading, and fill a large place in 
public and private libraries. Subjects of all 
sorts, of local and temporary, or general and 
permanent interest, the opinions of others upon 
them, the manner in which others have treated 
them, are placed within the reach of every- 
body ; so that it will not do for any one who 
reads at all to neglect the journals, if he would 
be prepared to talk with all upon much that 
is occupying them. The owner of a perfect 
series of a good review has (I will not say a 
systematic, but) a most instructive and agree- 
able account of the period over which it ex- 
tends, in almost every point of view. Even 
tiie inferior articles have their use, and the 
16 



182 FORMS OF CRITICISM. 

signs of resolute partisanship are informing and 
admonitory. 

I must not omit to say, as partially affecting 
the remarks upon the faint prospects of distant 
fame held out to reviewers, that selections of 
the most important of the old articles, for col- 
lective publication, are becoming common ; 
and, moreover, individual contributors some- 
times bring together their own articles in 
distinct works. This practice has its advan- 
tages ; but it may be doubted whether readers 
of these collections, especially in another gene- 
ration, will feel the exhilaration of a contem- 
porary, who took up the just published number, 
with its various matter and minds, its veteran 
writers and eager recruits ; when everybody 
was busy in detecting an old favorite, or in- 
quiring after the name and pretensions of a 
new candidate and lauding or scolding at 
pleasure. The reviewer himself may have been 
powerfully affected by this pressure of public 
interest. 

There is one evil at least to be apprehended 
from reviews, but one that is incidental to 
all criticism, and, we may add, to all instruc- 
tion, — that they may impair self-dependence, 
— may tempt men to forego the benefit and 
pleasure of drawing from original sources and 
thinking for themselves. To speak only for 
their authority in literary questions ; — I know 



FORMS OF CRITICISM. 183 

little respecting its extent at the present day ; 
but the time has been when the decree of a 
favorite journal was held by many to be 
decisive, as a matter of course. The decree 
might have been decisive for the grounds on 
which it rested. It is no doubt possible to 
pronounce to-day, upon a book just published, 
an opinion which shall be substantially the same 
with that of all time to come. i3ut there are 
obvious reasons for receiving the opinion at the 
time with caution. The general excitement 
which a new book may produce ; the fact that 
all minds are warmed by it and warmed by 
each other while everybody is talking about 
it,* may naturally lead one to think that then, 
if ever, the whole character of the work will 
be seen and felt. Still there is cause to fear 
exaggeration, Avhether the general impression 
be favorable or hostile, and that the retired 
critic will not escape the charm of voices 
that he hears on every side. Besides, he may 
have his private grudges or partialities ; he 
and his author may be of the same or dif- 
ferent parties ; he may have perversely com- 
mitted himself to the support of error and 
injustice. We may not then talce any criti- 
cism as of course having authority, but merely 
as so much literary opinion that we ourselves 

* Quarterly Review, Volume 67, Article on Thomas Camp- 
bell. 



184 FORMS OF CRITICISM. 

are to weigh ; while we hold the critic to be 
just as open to censure and amenable to 
opinion as if he were himself before the 
judge. 



A WRITER'S PREPARATION. 



No modest teacher would claim to have made 
his pupil a good writer ; and no prudent one, 
even if he believed in his so great success, would 
undertake to say how it was effected. The 
young man himself could not explain the process 
by the most severe inquiry into the growth of 
his mind, and of the now fully developed power 
of execution. 

So far as my own department of instruction 
is concerned, it would be easy to name the 
grammar and the rhetorical treatise that have 
been used, the dictionary that has been recom- 
mended, the authors that have been held up as 
masters of the language, and examples of style 
so far as any writer can be safely studied as a 
direct example. It would be easy to describe 
the courses of lectures that have been read to 
classes, and the method of conducting the critical 
exercises in com.position. But hovv^ insufficient 
do all these appear to account for what we see a 
16* [185] 



186 A writer's preparation. 

man do when he passes from the rudiments at 
school to responsible writing in the real work of 
life. The halting but vigorous stragglers who 
had suffered mishaps here from the beginning, 
are now transformed. Those who were ready 
and graceful writers when they came, and whom 
the teacher regarded as needing little or no guid- 
ance from him, can confer upon him no deserved 
honor by their increased vigor and skill. The 
timid and careful move with more freedom now 
that they are left to themselves. 

The change is not adequately explained by 
their entire change of habits on leaving college. 
A revolution has taken place in their minds, and, 
like others, not without a cause. It was not 
sudden, though it may seem so when it is first 
observed. It did not break out as a violent, 
separate event in their history. The preparation 
has been various, gradual and harmonious. The 
dull books and exercises of the rhetoric-class, we 
will believe, had their work to do among the 
other powers, and their effect has not perished, 
though they themselves, like the other instru- 
ments, are now forgotten. 

The confidence of teachers that their appa- 
ratus has not been applied in vain may be par- 
doned them. It is not arrogant. They can say 
truly that part of their instruction was most 
definite, and, though humble, it generally accom- 
plished what it proposed. Perhaps they hope 



A writer's preparation. 187 

that more was taught than forms and proprieties, 
and that they led the mind to feel that there was 
some bond between the forms and proprieties 
and its own action. The process, after all, may 
have been more than mechanical. 

The instructer, then, parts with many a young 
man in strong faith that he has done him good, 
but still perfectly willing to say that the prepara- 
tion, for all that appears, is so unequal to any 
great effect, that he will not try to show a single 
point of its efficacy beyond the most humble of 
its offices. It is of no importance that he should. 
He is still encouraged to go on with the work. 
The instruction he gives is of ancient appoint- 
ment, and most certainly relates to those ac- 
complishments for which the mature writer is 
honored. The public think there is some con- 
nection between the means and the success, and 
wish the same discipline to be carried on with 
the next generation. Moreover, the skilful writer 
himself cares nothing for the secret of the process 
now that the end is obtained. And even if the 
entire series of influences that helped to make 
him what he is could be clearly stated -in exact 
order, it might be of no use to a differently con- 
stituted mind. 

Admitting then that the pupil does well to 
accept long-tried modes of education without 
question or misgiving, still some details of his 
experience admit of intelligible statement, and 



188 A writer's preparation. 

are of interest to both the young and the mature 
writer, though possibly not of very direct use to 
either. 

There is something worth our notice in the 
state of our minds when writing or when pre- 
viously meditating upon our subject. If a man 
were asked whether he considered the mental 
action then going on as voluntary and submitted 
to his absolute regulation, he might at first reply 
that he did. He might say, ' I have always been 
accustomed to prepare myself for the work. I 
can recognize certain habits and methods which 
I generally follow and which I know that I 
formed for myself. If a man is not master in an 
occupation like this, what is meant by such ex- 
pressions as the mind's deliberate discoveries, its 
creative power, its reliance upon its own efforts 
in the absence of foreign aids and motives?' 

A friend may remind him that one at least of 
the philosophers thinks that there is more in his 
case than this.* The mind's perpetual activity 
and flow of thought are not dependent upon his 
will. Let him try to thrust out the remem- 
brance of some great calamity or good fortune, 
and it will yet rush over him like a flood. Let 
him lie down to rest and give over all care, hav- 
ing neither the w^ish nor the power to repel or 
invite meditation ; and what rapid, countless 
fancies, arguments, schemes of conduct and 

* Tucker's ' Light of Nature Pursued.' Vol. I. Chap. 1. 



189 



grave observations will pour into the unguarded 
recesses of his soul, and pass away for the influx 
of others; — and all this shall be done as secretly 
and quietly as a good or evil spirit was supposed 
to breathe thoughts into the unresisting fancy of 
a dreamer. The author referred to, appealing to 
every one's experience, insists that a man, sitting 
down to study, ' produces none of the thoughts 
passing in his mind ; not even that which he 
uses as the clew to bring in all the others.' He 
allov/s him, however, the power of directing, 
though he cannot cause or prevent their motion. 
As he is fond of illustration, he applies the fol- 
lowing example to his purpose. 

' We may compare our student to a man who 
has a river running through his grounds, which 
divides into a multitude of channels. If he 
dams up all the rest, the stream will flow in the 
one he leaves open. If he finds it breaking out 
into side branches, he can keep it within bounds 
by stopping up the outlets. If he perceives the 
course it takes ineflectual for his purpose, he can 
throw a mound across, and let it overflow at any 
gap he judges convenient. The water runs by 
its own strength without any impulse from the 
man, and, whatever he does to it, will find a 
vent somewhere or other. He may turn, alter or 
direct its motion, but neither gave nor can take 
it away. So it is with our thoughts.' 

It remains for every writer to say whether this 



190 



representation is according to his experience. 
How much does he set down which he antici- 
pated when he began to reflect upon a subject ? 
After his work is done, how much does he find 
to be the result of previous design ? He may 
begin with a prominent idea, which it is his 
purpose to lay open. Very soon unexpected 
relations spring up and gather round it, till some- 
times the original subject becomes subordinate. 
A deeper and more comprehensive truth is dis- 
cerned. His first scheme will be an embarrass- 
ment to him, if he has not set about his work 
with the feeling that it is never wise or safe, in 
entering upon a course of meditation, to say pre- 
cisely whither it shall lead him. He thinks it 
will never do thus to commit himself as to the 
result. The incipient motions of thought, doubt- 
ful and prudent as they may well be, may soon 
acquire heroic energy, and his subject will dilate 
with his capacity and warmth. Behold how 
great a matter a little fire kindleth. Two or 
three characters only, with as many scenes and 
incidents, have swelled to a grand drama or 
novel, and he feels almost like a stranger in the 
midst of his own works. This is far from being 
a sign of an ill-disciplined mind, or of one igno- 
rant of its strength and resources, and borne into 
mere extravagances by a weak surrender of 
itself to a passing influence. It is the natural 
experience of some men in the healthiest mental 



191 



condition. In others, constitutionally more cool, 
or habitually more guarded, the course of ideas 
will be slower and less unexpected, but not es- 
sentially unlike. 

Nothing that has just been said or quoted 
throws any doubt upon our having a great deal 
to do for ourselves as thinkers and writers. We 
may be very ignorant with regard to the produc- 
tion of thoughts. The poet who invokes a muse 
to inspire him may act as rationally as he who 
sits down to make a book with the declaration 
that he will work it all out of his own head, with 
a consciousness of every step, with a foresight of 
all that is to come, and with a resolution not to 
put down a single thought which he does not 
ov/e to a voluntary exercise of reflection. But 
of this we are certain, that we are purposely, not 
less than unconsciously, to supply materials and 
multiply occasions for thinking; and that it de- 
pends upon ourselves, upon the habits we form 
and the discipline we exercise, whether we are 
employed to good purpose or not. A very gen 
eral subject is here opened to us, in which both 
the moral and intellectual character are con- 
cerned ; and in most of its bearings the v/riter is 
not more interested than other persons. Our 
business, however, is with the writer alone, and 
we shall now suppose him to be agitating the 
question, — 'What good use can I make of 
reading as a part of my preparation ? ' 



192 A writer's preparation. 

At school and college I suppose books are 
looked upon, partly, as requiring of him a certain 
amount of hard work, for some mysterious good 
that they are to yield by and by. As connected 
with his exercises in composition, they are con- 
sulted upon particular subjects for facts, thoughts 
and illustrations to be applied directly to a pres- 
ent task ; and probably some favorite author is 
remembered for fascinating peculiarities of style 
which, with the natural love of imitation in early 
life, the student is pleased to exhibit on his own 
page. There is no cause for wonder that such a 
use is made of resources so near at hand, by one 
who is now for the first time called on to per- 
form exercises so grave and so alarming to his 
self-diffidence. The research, moreover, may be 
useful beyond its serving a present emergency. 
The bad effects of the practice it is not easy to 
prevent, because it is not easy so to define and 
press them th?tt they will be felt or even appre- 
hended by the young. The indirect benefit of 
reading and by far the highest, — I mean its 
exercising the mind, forming the judgment and 
taste, and breathing a spirit, far better than that 
of emulation, the spirit of independence and self- 
reliance, — this indirect effect of good books, 
though never wholly lost upon the young, is yet 
scarcely valued as it should be till we reach a 
time of life, when we are disposed to examine a 
little both the influences which have shaped our 



193 



minds, and those which, unhappily, failed to 
make a decided impression. 

Many are the complaints which are brought 
against books. If they were confined to our ill 
selection, or to hurtful habits of reading, they 
might, though very seasonable, attract little no- 
tice. But books are said to make us indolent 
and self-indulgent; to create a love of plodding 
accumulation or a morbid taste for bibliographi- 
cal curiosities ; a vain self-complacency in the 
amount of our reading, such as is never produced 
by other modes of acquisition ; and a general 
disposition to stop at what we read, to acquiesce 
in opinions, and take pride in calling men mas- 
ters. I cannot undertake to refute in detail what 
I think to be wrong in these accusations, or to 
state with proper qualifications what is unques- 
tionably true in them, and wisely intended for 
counsel and warning. A brief notice of the last 
complaint is all that I propose to myself, and 
merely for the purpose of considering the sup- 
posed unfavorable influence of reading on origi- 
nality. I put out of view all who can properly 
be called plagiarists, and have little more respect 
for those who reject, as far as they may, all 
foreign aid. 

The only question is, do books make us less 

independent, less ourselves, than any other source 

of knowledge or exhilaration ? Some contend 

that this is the ordinary effect of high cultivation 

17 



194 A writer's preparation. 

and abundant reading; that there will always 
be less of character in literature where colleges, 
libraries, teachers and learned associations 
abound ; and they see the want increasing with 
the multiplication and lower prices of books. If 
we doubt this influence and support ourselves by 
citing eminent examples to the contrary, they 
treat those as exceptions or explain away their 
authority, and still maintain that the fewer direct 
helps you give the writer, the better. At first 
thought, originality would seem to be too strong 
a quality to be hurtfuUy affected by circumstan- 
ces of any kind. Let us try to see what it is, 
that we may better understand its perils. 

The word original^ is commonly used to de- 
note the character of a mind which, from its 
constitution and natural action, — not from 
weak and random eccentricity, but from sound, 
inherent activity, — takes its own view of things 
and makes its own use of them. Originality 
supposes that we draw from original sources ; 
but not in the same sense that the voyager or 
naturalist draws absolutely Jiew facts from ex- 
ploring oceans or the kingdoms of nature. It is 
not of the least moment whether a subject be 
just brought to the notice of men, or be the old- 
est and commonest ; nor yet from what quarter 
or in what way it comes ; for, if an original 
mind acts at all, it must act up to its character ; 
it must reflect itself upon whatever it stu- 



195 



dies.* So that we are justified in saying that 
what it draws from its subject owes, in one 
sense, its existence to this mind, and bears its 
stamp. 

It belongs to its nature to spread itself over 
everything that comes in its way, if there be> 
any possibility of sympathy ; not, however, for 
the purpose of saying something new and 
strange, but because it loves and seeks exercise. 
Hence it is always likely to be well filled ; not 
simply that it has ample collections, but because 
of its power to give new forms to things and 
convert them to its special use. It is rich, not 
by hoarding borrowed treasures but by turning 
everything into gold. So cheerful, healthy and 
active does this quality seem to be, that we 
are almost constrained to think that it must 
manifest itself most strongly and generously 
when it is exposed to a variety of objects and 
interests. 

Som^e, however, believe that isolation is pecu- 
liarly favorable to originality. No doubt a her- 
mit may be original in the absence both of 
men and of books; but not because of his 
solitude or his privations. His condition would 
look very unpromising to most men. Imagine 
him forever by himself, musing upon himself, 

* ' Originality never woi'ks more fruitfally than in a soil rich 
and deep with the foliage of ages.' — Westminster Review^ 
Januaiy, 1854. 



196 



revolving a few favorite opinions, and buried 
in speculations all of one character. This, cer- 
tainly, is the most perfect seclusion. But his 
habits seem more likely to produce harsh and 
narrow peculiarity than expansive and animated 
individuality. He will probably soon have 
much of the oddness, of the constant reference 
to self and repetition of self which we com- 
monly observe in solitary men. He may learn 
to exaggerate trifles because they are his, and 
remain stationary in the contemplation of his 
darling conceits. There is good reason to think 
that the mind may be made as feeble in its 
whole character by turning perpetually upon 
itself and refusing help or impulse from abroad, 
as by immersing itself in books and resting 
in the thoughts and reports of other men. 
There are madmen and sluggards in cells as 
well as in libraries. So that, on the whole, it 
does not belong to us to say that a man's con- 
dition, tastes, pursuits, his great learning or his 
meagre learning, have anything to do with 
the manifestation of original qualities. This 
seems to lie wholly with himself. 

A book then may be as strictly an original 
source as anything else. As giving us informa- 
tion only, it is sometimes as new and animating 
as the ocean to an inland man. Besides, what 
nobler or more original study can we have than 
that of a man in his writings, — a contemplative 



A writer's preparation. 197 

being, — and often more fully disclosed to us 
there, than he could be in a life of action ; and 
brought near to us for our minute inspection 
and full sympathy. 

But there is a vague notion that a book differs 
from all other literary sources in one important 
point, so far as the present question is con- 
cerned ; and the distinction is, that what we 
read has already been revolved by a human 
mind. The germ or element of thought, once 
common property, is no longer in its simple 
state. It is appropriated by being modified, 
colored, combined with other substances and 
capable of peculiar application after being sub- 
jected to this hidden transmutation. A charm 
is now thrown round it, a consecration that 
must not be violated. A seal, not to be mis- 
taken, is set upon it, and you cannot use the 
thought unless by taking it avowedly just as 
you find it. And the same, of course, would 
be as true of what we hear as of what we 
read. 

This theory of property and inviolability is 
pleasing and not without foundation. But 
what a strange idea must the objector have of 
the use we may lawfully make of another man's 
thoughts. We may never have occasion to 
borrow them ; but is this the only or even the 
best service to which we can honestly put 
them ? Do we wrong the owner because we 
17* 



198 A writer's preparation. 

are warmed into admiration, strengthened, 
purified, made happy by his words, and better 
prepared for our peculiar work ? ' Does he 
suffer loss because our lamp is lighted at 
his ? ' 

But there are more direct and equally honor- 
able modes of using what others have written. 
We frequently hear it said, in no malicious 
sense, that a man makes what he reads his 
own. It did not pass into his memory to re- 
main there in its original shape, like an histori- 
cal date or the buried talent. It exercised his 
mind and received a character from it. He 
does not seek for it in his memory as a laid-up 
treasure ; it is not copied as a brilliant passage 
from his common-place book ; but it springs up 
in connection with his own thoughts, and be- 
comes so intimately a part of them that he does 
not suspect that he is indebted for it to another. 
The first proprietor, should he recognize it, 
would have no other feeling than of delight to 
see his property in such good hands and turned 
to so good account. This, to be sure, is not 
the highest use we can make of another man's 
mind, but it will serve to answer a somewhat 
over-refined objection. 

That a student is exposed to perils from his 
constant association with great writers is not 
disputed. I refer not to the grossest of these 



199 



perils, — such as the temptation to take the 
thoughts or copy the style of another, — nor 
yet to the subtle enchantment which draws 
one imconsciously into imitation of his special 
favorite or of the popular idol of the day. 
There is danger from terror as well as from 
love. A man may be discouraged by contem- 
plating excellence. His sense of this excellence 
is of itself proof of no small capacity and re- 
source on his own part, and, if left to its natural 
and free action, would swell into generous, sus- 
taining admiration and reverence. But it may 
also create self-distrust ; and this may degener- 
ate, if not into envy, yet, into despair or peevish 
uneasiness at the idea that he cannot reach 
another's elevation. Why, rather, does there 
not spring up the glowing thought, — I, too, 
have a height before me, which none other may 
reach ? Of course it cannot be his ambition 
to do precisely what another has done. He 
would be content to do as well in a different 
direction. But who is to pass upon the ques- 
tion of comparative merit ? There is no com- 
mon measure of excellence any more than of 
minds. And, in this indefinite state of the case, 
(the best possible for us all,) each must do his 
own work according to his power and natural 
tendencies. 

Goethe told Eckermann that if he had been 
an Englishman he should have been over- 



200 A writer's preparation. 

powered by Shakspeare.* He must have tried 
to avoid him and choose a new course for him- 
self. A monstrous delusion, probably, even in 
his own case, and certainly one which does not 
appear to have led Shakspeare's countrymen 
astray. To shun greatness in another, for 
whatever cause, is as spiritless as servile wait- 
ing upon it. The mere instituting of com- 
parisons between ourselves and others is a 
proof, or, at any rate, the beginning of weak- 
ness. It not only blinds us to our own secret 
forces, but prevents our seeing anything truly. 
"We gradually lose the power of discerning 
what is good and beautiful in the very writers 
who have gained this fatal possession of 
our admiration. They disown us, and we 
perceive it not. At last, we are led to believe 
that readers will adopt our rule of estima- 
tion, and judge us, not for ourselves, but ac- 
cording as we stand in relation to men of 
established name. 

To one who is thus perplexed and dis- 
pirited, the simple truth is the best direction : 
You will never be judged by competent rea- 
ders with any such reference, or with any 
reference that does not concern yourself alone. 
You will not be condemned for being as bad 
as another, or worse, — or praised for being 

* If I remember right, he was speaking of the advantage 
there is in nations' having diiferent hmguages. 



A writer's preparation. 201 

as good as another, or better. All will depend 
upon the never-deceiving evidence that what 
you do is your own, — that it proceeds from 
your own resources or your own barrenness. 



HABITS OF READING. 



Having had occasion to speak of reading, in 
connection with a writer's preparation for his 
work, I return to the subject that I may state 
one or two things, of a practical bearing, which 
I could not then conveniently introduce. They 
relate mainly to reading superficially ; — not to 
the reading of superficial books, but to a habit 
of light, indolent, heedless inspection of any 
work. 

One symptom, — perhaps it may be called 
one cause of this, — is the ambition to know a 
great deal about books ; to be familiar with 
catalogues, names, titles, prices, publishers, an 
author's corrected proofs, editions and their re- 
lative estimation, curious alterations in succes- 
sive impressions, and the like. Such knowledge 
is far from being, in all cases, not worth the 
getting, for it often assists the biographer of 
literary men and the historian of literary eras. 
Certainly, I mean no reproach to regular biblio- 

[202] 



HABITS OF READING. 203 

maniacs, — men often of great learning and 
useful enthusiasm, — a little odd in their humor, 
it may be, but very serious in their business, 
and well able to bear the gibes and merriment 
of the unsympathizing. I speak only of pre- 
tenders, who love to waste time in the mere 
turning over of books to gratify a vain and 
morbid curiosity, and acquire a poor notoriety. 
Think of using a large public library as a place 
to lounge in ; to form a taste for slight, desultory 
reading ; to gather up literary news to be re- 
tailed in conversation, in a spirit no higher than 
that of gossip. If this practice were fallen into 
by young men for amusement only, or for a 
brief triumph of vanity, and ended there ; if it 
were not almost sure to make them frivolous 
readers and flippant critics, I should not be dis- 
posed to treat it seriously. There is no objection 
to a student's being something of a bibliogra- 
pher ; but he should be guarded against the 
literary foppery which has nearly supplanted 
the massy and far more respectable pedantry 
of our fathers. 

You must not suppose that I equally object 
to reading superficially with regard to all books 
and all persons. Dr. Johnson, certainly, was 
able to amass information from volumes that 
he hurried over impatiently and with large 
omissions, and many books may be turned to 
good account, which require and deserve no 



204 HABITS OF READING. 

more thorough examination. I make a dis- 
tinction, too, between the case of a student 
who is preparing at the university or elsewhere 
for commencing, by and by, his professional 
course, and that of a man who has already 
entered upon that course. The latter has a 
prominent object, of a very grave character and 
quite unconnected with literary delights, to 
occupy, excite and govern his mind ; so that 
it may be safe for him to employ part of his 
leisure in running over the catalogues and 
shelves of a large miscellaneous collection, just 
to learn what books there are in the world and 
where they may be found. It may be safe 
for him to be even a smatterer, aside from 
his regular studies. His thorough training in 
his professional investigations, and his formed 
intellectual habits will teach him how to use 
profitably a great amount of various matter, 
which he may have acquired almost accidentally, 
— almost snatched from any quarter in his play- 
time. He will wear gracefully what he has thus 
lightly collected. 

But, on the other hand, ia the course of early 
education, this very literature, followed as it 
may be into several languages, is to be the 
student's business. It is, for the present, his 
profession. It is his work, not his play ; the 
stuff, and not the ornament. If it were my 
purpose to state all that he is to aim at and 



HABITS OF READING. 205 

do here, in what are called the strictly literary 
branches, or in the English branch alone, I 
should have a ready and sufficient argument for 
you that trifling will not do in this part of your 
course, — that there is room and demand for 
hard work and profound study. Besides, the 
sole object is not to make one a man of learning 
and exact taste, but also to form in him that 
most difficult to form of all habits, the habit 
of attention. Then will follow, as we hope, a 
sharpened power of discrimination. And, as 
the fruit of all, he has learned how to find 
pleasure enough in a useful labor, however 
irksome, to bear it well, and to get from it all 
the good it can yield. Such a student is likely 
to be thoroughly disciplined for intellectual 
work at least ; and no doubt he has acquired 
much, both in knowledge and in habits, which 
will serve him well in the work of active life. 
But the moment he loses sight of duties and 
advantages, and begins to trifle miscellaneously 
with books, and crave variety, and talk of 
general knowledge and of keeping pace with 
the age, there is reason to fear that he is losing 
all control of himself, and all perception of the 
useful in reading. 

Even an orderly and diligent reader may be 

warned not to forget the distinction between a 

well-informed and a much-reading man, and 

that with great possessions it is very possible 

18 



206 HABITS OF READING. 

\ 

to be superficial. I will explain my meaning 
by a single instance. Let me suppose that one 
of you desires to become familiar with early 
English poetry. He has been strongly tempted 
by hearing it much spoken of, and by the 
facilities offered in glossaries, notes, a corrected 
text, pictorial illustrations, and a fair type. In 
fact, he lives in the days of the revival of our 
old masters. Once,- most of us had to rely upon 
modernized extracts, or perhaps worse, upon 
modern versions of our antiquated poetry ; — 
bat now it may be said to be generally accessi- 
ble and inviting in its own shape. 

Still, with all our advantages, I cannot sup- 
pose that many will undertake to read the 
entire collection of old English poetry, and I 
hope few would be satisfied with selections. 
For the guidance and encouragement of the 
student, I will tTy to show him how he may 
make a comparatively small amount most use- 
ful and satisfying. I assure him, then, (however 
paradoxical it may seem,) that if he reads fre- 
quently, thoroughly, fondly, a single great poet 
of the early period, he will knov/ not only more 
of him, but of the age in which he lived, the 
condition of our language and versification at 
that time, the sources and character of our 
early literature, the influences it transmitted, 
and, from all these, the changes we have passed 
through for better or worse, than from all that 



HABITS OF READING. 207 

critics have said on these subjects, and from all 
the specimens or versions that have been given 
of writers at or near the time. Of com'se, I 
do not mean to limit his studies to one poet, 
but to apprise him that he may safely forfeit 
a great amount of desultory information con- 
cerning our old poets, if he will make himself 
the intimate companion of one or more of the 
most eminent, who are filled with their age and 
represent it. Indeed, with their help, he will 
find it easy to master their less-known contem- 
poraries, if his curiosity should take that direc- 
tion. In any view of the case, he will be saved 
from desperate efforts to master the whole by 
giving every writer some degree of attention, 
and a thorough study to none. 

I might say all this for the student's en- 
couragement merely, as he stands, alarmed 
perhaps, in the presence of large and obscure 
portions of our literature. I might say it for 
what I believe will be its permanent good effect 
on his mind, his habits as a scholar, and his 
enjoyment. But I recommend this method, first 
of all, that he may make himself a thoroughly 
informed man in w^ritings too little sought after, 
that his knowledge of them may be both com- 
prehensive and substantial. 



A WRITER'S HABITS. 



One thing which the writer has to do for 
himself, and in which all depends upon himself, 
is to acquire such self-command that he can 
give his whole attention to a subject, so that 
he shall be in a way to comprehend it perfectly 
and be able to put down his thoughts freshly 
as they occur, without losing a step in^ the 
longest train. This self-control must be a prin- 
ciple and a habit, that shall be equal to any 
temptation or opposition, and stand faithfully 
by him when, writing is the most irksome thing 
in the world, when the body is exhausted and 
the mind listless and vacant. It will never do 
to put off such work as his till it invites him. 
It is a miserable mistake that success in original 
composition is hopeless unless he sets about it 
with all his heart, and that, when the spirit is 
reluctant, he may at least insist upon having a 
subject which is full of promise and invitation. 

Sometimes the idle and conceited fall into 

[208] 



A writer's habits. 209 

this strain, that they may be thought men of 
genius because they can practise the follies of 
the great. Sometimes men of a visionary, 
sensitive cast adopt it, and think it would be 
a kind of sacrilege to force the mind into action, 
and to expect from effort and violence what can 
come only from unpremeditated movements or 
resistless inspiration. These are the unpro- 
ductive literary dreamers, who seem to think 
that rare gifts set them above conscience and 
rules, and that the delicate structure of their 
minds requires them to keep aloof from the 
rude encounters and intimacies of daily life. 
Their activity must be within. 

Such persons are above and beyond teaching. 
But to the plainer sort it may be said that if 
we regard writing as a duty, though it be a 
mere literary exercise here at college, it will do 
more for us than make us skilful in compo- 
sition. It will prepare us in a degree for active 
life, by giving us habits of self-denial, industry 
and close study, a general and ready command 
of our faculties, a clear, direct way of thinking 
on all subjects and occasions, a promptness and 
decision in our opinions, and a natural and pre- 
cise method of expressing them. A man who 
writes much and with consideration is doing 
himself an incalculable good in respect to every 
other study. Thus what to one seems absolute 
drudgery and to another an amusement or re- 
18* 



210 A writer's habits. 

finement, may be made a means of forming 
good intellectual habits generally, and a gener- 
ous preparation for the varied calls of life. 

To return to the difficulties we shall have to 
encounter in our frequent indolence and irreso- 
lution : I believe there are few who do not feel 
at times an almost invincible disinclination to 
writing. There is something to repel in the 
necessary preparation. They have much that 
is merely mechanical to attend to. They must 
shut themselves from society. The eye must 
not look abroad. All the senses must, as far 
as possible, be brought to repose. One tiresome 
position must be kept. And then, instead of 
the effortless occupation of reading or conver- 
sation, where the mind is in perpetual activity 
from a foreign impulse, — instead of free mus- 
ing or speculation by ourselves, just as the 
thoughts choose to roam, — our meditations 
must often be brought down to a few points by 
main force and kept there till they answer our 
purpose, or else lead to something far better 
than our purpose. And when new thoughts 
begin to pour upon us rapidly, we must govern 
them so that the pen may keep pace with them, 
and thousands in the meanwhile may flit from 
us forever, which we fondly think were of more 
worth than any we have saved. 

When you connect these difficulties with 
men's natural indolence, you may wonder at 



211 



the stores of voluntary literature which enrich 
our libraries. But self-imposed duty soon be- 
comes a pleasure ; employment becomes a plea- 
sure. The mind that required to be goaded 
before it would act at all, and to be curbed 
before it would act in the direction we desired, 
soon begins to feel and rejoice in its strength, 
and to move onward with an impulse of its 
own, — as cheerful in its labors as it ever was 
in its dreams, — with a deep and full current 
of thought rushing through it, and beautiful 
fancies swarming into it uncalled, and all con- 
spiring to accomplish what has now become 
our all-absorbing purpose. Frequent repetitions 
of such a trial give some men a wonderful 
confidence in their powers and resources ; so 
that let the subject look ever so unpromising at 
first, let their faculties be ever so languid and 
reluctant, they begin their work with little dis- 
trust of the event, and enter the dark void 
before them assured that it will soon be illumi- 
nated and filled. 

I am aware that there is a difference in men 
as to the facility with which they bring them- 
selves to this task. Some of quite ordinary 
endowments, who are incapable of thinking 
profoundly and comprehensively, whose tem- 
perament is cheerful and their ambition easily 
appeased, will know nothing like difficulty or 
inequality in their efforts. Their thoughts are 



212- A writer's habits. 

always on the surface and near at hand, and 
rarely change their hue, or increase considerably 
in number or dimensions, during many years. 
And always having a ready command of such 
words and phrases as are in harmony with the 
ideas, they will sit down at any moment to any 
subject and manage it in their way with the 
utmost fluency and self-content. 

Others, too, with intellects of the highest 
order, will enjoy an almost incessant activity 
and buoyancy of mind, and delight in labor at 
all times, and devote themselves to subjects 
the most dissimilar, one after another, with a 
promptness and facility that seem nearly mi- 
raculous. 

But I speak to those only who feel and are 
willing to acknowledge a positive difficulty and 
embarrassment when they undertake to write ; 
not from any consciousness of mental debility, 
but from reluctance to begin. To such I have 
but one more observation to make. When a 
determined, persevering effort shall have once 
brought them to consider a subject fairly, when 
they have taken a firm hold of it and are 
warmied by their exertion, they should not let 
it go for a moment till their work is accom- 
plished. If nature is not exhausted by over- 
straining, let them take full advantage of their 
present interest in the train of thought they 
have fallen into. The first heat is the most 



213 



intense and productive ; the first fresh impres- 
sion will be the liveliest if preserved at the 
moment. If we put by our work and say : 
'Now we are masters of this subject; we see 
our whole course ; we will remit our labors and 
begin, some other day, where we left off and 
finish at our leisure ; ' — we shall certainly de- 
ceive ourselves. We may indeed carry our 
plan and our principal points in our memory ; 
but we cannot so easily preserve, amidst other 
scenes and cares and pleasures, the state of 
mind in which we formed this plan and settled 
these leading points. The crude materials are 
indeed all left for us to w^ork upon, but the fire 
which had prepared them for our hands is gone 
out, and every trial to kindle it anew may be 
in vain. 

Let it be considered farther that the most 
rapid writer is he who has the habit of putting 
dov/n at once what occurs to him in seasons 
of great warmth and exuberance. And there 
is reason to expect that he will in general be 
the truest and exactest writer, with all his im- 
petuosity ; for he will state what he conceives 
strongly, at a time when he feels concerned to 
do it justice; and he will naturally, so select 
and arrange his words as to express precisely 
what he thinks and in the way that he thinks. 
Hence he will be the most impressive writer. 
He will have those marks of sincerity which 



214 



are as well-known and attractive to grown peo- 
ple as to children. 

I by no means object to the utmost strictness 
of criticism when we come to look over our 
work ; but one of the worst habits a writer can 
fall into is that of stopping to rectify his style at 
the moment of composing, — interrupting the 
course of his reflections to pass judgment upon 
their appearance, and looking back over the 
ground he has just travelled to see that nothing 
is out of the way. He inevitably sacrifices 
the grace and freedom of manner which flow 
from a natural st ate of the feelings, which are 
precisely adapted to the spontaneous current 
of the thoughts, and which do much towards 
making others enter into them heartily ; and all 
that he gains by the sacrifice is an almost pain- 
ful freedom from faults, and what has been aptly 
termed a conscious manner, which is an offence 
to everybody. The work of correction should 
not begin till all other work is done. Its office 
is not to check the mind when in full action, but 
to remove errors and supply deficiencies which 
its very ardor and rapidity may have caused. 

It would be needless, even if it were possible, 
to enumerate the different habits of writer?, 
growing out of accident, or affectation, or of a 
fair trial of what discipline is most suitable for 
the individual. Every man is apt to think that 
there is something peculiar in his own case 



215 



which justifies and requires something peculiar 
in his ways ; and in consulting his temper and 
taste, he often does little more than make him- 
self singular in trifles, and self-indulgent when 
he ought to be manly and laborious. Because 
the mind's work may be more exhausting than 
any other, he claims to be allowed the choice of 
his hours. One prefers the broad day ; another 
is inspired only in the later watches of the night. 
In reading literary biography, we find frequent 
instances of singularity in regard to the seasons 
of study and relaxation, to residence, walks, 
associates and meals ; as if such things were of 
moment to successful exertion ; and as if the 
slightest deviation from a favorite practice would 
disturb the mind's action as seriously as would 
a mote the springs and movements of a time- 
piece. 

But, however it may be with these, it is cer- 
tain that some of the writer's habits are of im- 
portance, as they are intimately connected with 
the mind, whether for good or evil, and require 
pains whether to" form or undo them. I will 
refer to one only, which respects the difference in 
writers as to their preparation. Some prefer to 
do the principal part of their meditation before- 
hand ; and where the mind is cool and uninvent- 
ive this is practicable to a considerable extent. 
Their plan is sketched in every particular ; the 
materials are collected, hewn, shaped and fitted, 



216 A writer's habits. 

till it seems as if nothing remained but for the 
building to go up. They are fond of patient, 
connected thinking ; and such is the good order 
of their minds, and their memories are so much 
aided by the strict connection of their thoughts 
when first revolved, that they are able afterwards 
to give us a fair copy of them in writing. 
Though this habit is not peculiar to men of 
slow, laborious minds, yet it is particularly im- 
portant to them, as they soon learn by experience. 
If they should begin to write at a sudden call, 
upon an unconsidered subject, the enterprise 
would probably be as fruitless as an attempt at 
extemporaneous speaking by one of confused 
thoughts and embarrassed utterance, who had 
ahvays relied upon his memory or his notes. 
If they should trust to immediate suggestions, 
probably none would occur but the very com- 
monest, and these but slightly connected, so 
dependent are such writers for good and per- 
tinent matter upon their taking a deliberate and 
minute view of their subject. 

Others, on the contrary, will tell us that they 
cannot think without a pen in their hands. It 
serves as a charm to collect the scattered powers 
and give them a definite direction. When one 
thought is safely put upon paper, it draws a 
multitude round it. Something like instinct 
enables writers of this class to feel their way 
through mazes and over obstacles, much more 



217 



surely and effectually than they could have laid 
out or cut one. We do not suppose, however, 
that thek preparation is small because it is 
scarcely discernible either by us or by them- 
selves. They are always acquiring something, 
it may be unconsciously, which they will turn to 
account in proper time ; and a certain quickness 
of perception and sagacity, an alacrity of mem- 
ory, and a power of rapid and almost infinitely 
various combination, will secure them against 
the want of serviceable materials, at any moment 
they may be called for. 

19 



THE STUDY OF OUR OWN LANGUAGE, 



Directions for a good use of language have, 
as they should, a prominent place in the syntax 
of our grammars and in our rhetorical text- 
books; and they are not lost sight of in the 
familiar exercises we have together in English 
composition. Some rather general views sug- 
gested by the subject may be usefully presented 
in a lecture, and may impress upon you the 
value of the minute instruction which is more 
properly given elsewhere. 

The proposition I wish to consider now is that 
our own language requires our study. We have 
more to learn of it than we ordinarily gather up, 
with little apparent thought or labor, in passing 
from infancy to maturity. Its acquisition and 
use seem to the native as natural as to breathe 
or move. He acknowledges that he must study 
a foreign tongue, even if he lives among the 
people to acquire it as children do. But he is 
born to his own. It presses itself upon him 

[218] 



THE STUDY OF OUR OWN LANGUAGE. 219 

every moment. He cannot escape it. And if 
he has been generally well brought up at home, 
and accustomed to good society, and has read 
the best books in the language, how should he 
fail to be perfect in it ? There may yet remain 
something to be studied. 

With the mere grammar of the tongue I am 
not at present concerned. But it may be ob- 
served that this is commonly learned in the same 
unconscious way that we get the sound and 
meaning of words. We are not aware of labor 
or attention, or of the need of either. An ac- 
complished Latin scholar from our higher semi- 
naries will sometimes tell me that he had never 
studied it at school, and that he knows it, so far 
at least as rules and technical terms are involved, 
only by what he has found in his classical guides. 
Probably he is not the less accurate in his Eng- 
lish for having thoroughly learned the structure 
of another tongue; but whatever accuracy he 
has, he owes to his familiarity with English 
books and with good society. He has no prin- 
ciples, that he is aware of, to go by. He has no 
systematic knowledge of our speech. He has no 
list of exceptions and irregularities duly classified 
and committed to memory. If a doubt is raised 
by his teacher, he is more likely to think that his 
teacher has forgotten his Latin, tlian that he is 
pressing a lawfnl English idiom. Probably it 
will not be till he is persuaded in many ways 



220 THE STUDY OF OUR LANGUAGE. 

that his own tongue has its peculiar difficulties 
and niceties, that he begins to look into authori- 
ties and usage in order to make himself a fair 
English scholar. 

■ Our language, however troublesome to for- 
eigners, appears to- us a very simple and bald 
formation by the side of the well-ordered and 
variously inflected tongues of our ancient mas- 
ters. It seems to invite us to take liberties by 
its unimposing air. It has done so little for 
itself that we will do with it what we please. 
So thought our fathers, if we may judge from 
their many loose practices ; and so think, in our 
times, not merely adventurous young students, 
but mature writers of high name, who seem to 
be doing their utmost to show as little reverence 
for the old rules of grammar as for the old canons 
of verbal purity. But w^e take heart when we see 
that the counsels and remonstrances of critics and 
philologists at least keep pace Avith the laxity of 
writers. We should be still more encouraged if 
the profound investigations into our language, 
which now attract much attention, were in- 
cluded among the studies of advanced classes at 
college. 

But we are to consider difficulties of a differ- 
ent kind. At present, I would direct your atten- 
tion chiefly to the difficulty that arises from what 
is called the uncertainty of language. If the 
words in popular use were significant, in all 



THE STUDY OF OUR LANGUAGE. 221 

cases, pf some precise idea (neither more nor 
less) as arithmetical characters are of a definite 
quantity ; if, in both cases, a single sign only 
were used to express the idea or quantity ; or, if 
all our terms, like those of the professions, trades 
and arts, were technical, including nothing under 
them, in any circumstances, but certain particu- 
lars which the parties concerned had defined and 
agreed upon with a view to their own conven- 
ience; — then our popular vocabulary might be 
as- perfectly, if not as easily, learned, as a list of 
towns or, minerals. All men in their senses 
might obtain an equally extensive and correct 
use of it ; and no one would blunder or be at a 
loss but from failure of memory. 

But the growth of common language is differ- 
ent from the establishment of technical terms 
and proper names. It is gradual and irregular ; 
and when the state of a language at various pe- 
riods is observed, one is disposed to think that it 
has been greatly at the mercy of caprice or acci- 
dent. Certainly a number of learned men did 
not assemble to institute the symbols we now 
use, and to fix their import by careful definitions 
or descriptions. The public, the multitude, the 
unlettered population of an age beyond memory, 
beyond history, constitute the first great academy 
that ordains the signs of speech and gives them 
significance and currency. By and by the in- 
creasing wants of men call for an increased vo- 
19* 



222 THE STUDY OF OUR LANGUAGE. 

cabulary. New words are introduced ; old words 
are turned a little from their first meaning by 
dropping or adding something; and it should 
seem that in many of these changes less regard 
was paid to analogy than the student of long- 
subsequent ages would desire.* 

In due time a written literature succeeds to 
the recitations of bards, or other formal methods 
of public oral addresses; and popular authors 
begin to revolutionize and systematize the old 
barbarous speech. Very different tastes and 
resources are brought to this work. Some pow- 
erful writer becomes an authority for words bor- 
rowed from another nation, but shaped to suit 
the genius of his own language. Some, dissat- 
isfied with seeing how old words have departed 
from their original signification, propose others 
to express it more definitely ; and then in their 
turn undergoing similar or as great alterations, 
we are supplied amply with synonymes. Once 
more, a word in the course of time will have a 
somewhat peculiar meaning according to its 
connection with others ; so that looking at every 
definition which the best dictionaries may give 
of it will be to little purpose, unless examples are 
quoted to show us how it is used, how associated, 
when it is intended to express such or such an 

* It is proper to say that we are speaking of a language which 
has grown up at home, without violent additions from the 
tongues of conquering invaders. 



THE STUDY OF OUR OWN LANGUAGE. 223 

idea. These are but few of the particulars which 
might be enumerated to illustrate the irregularity 
and caprice which are charged upon the growth 
of language. 

At last the language of a country is said to be 
fixed, to be settled ; but this is to be understood 
merely in comparison with its chaotic state at an 
early period. For though language is not quite 
so mutable as running water, yet we know 
enough of its progress and retrogressions never 
to expect it to be stationary, w^hile there remains 
any considerable amount of literary zeal, activity 
and freedom, or while we are constantly exposed 
to literary epidemics of languor and vicious taste. 
We think it a great good-fortune if novelties, 
that seem to be inevitable, are but introduced 
with a due respect to analogy. Still we say, at 
some epoch rather than at any other, that the 
language is settled. Some high Augustan age 
has come. So many celebrated works, now 
deemed classical, have been published, that a 
mark is considered as set upon all good and all 
bad words, and the only legitimate use of terms 
is considered as decreed. Instead of the per- 
plexities and fluctuations of a merely spoken 
language, we have books of authority, standard 
dictionaries, standard grammars ; and he will be 
regarded as little less than a barbarian or a 
willing martyr, who shall venture to add to the 
collections of an approved lexicographer, or in 



224 THE STUDY OF OUR OWN LANGUAGE. 

any way to dispute his authority. Nevertheless, 
the law of change is itself immutable ; and 
though, at an advanced stage of literature, it 
operates with less violence and disorder than it 
once did, yet that it is ever in operation we can- 
not doubt. Here then we see a part of the 
difficulty we must encounter in the attempt to 
master our own mother tongue. 

It is further necessary to make our language a 
study, because many words which we employ 
with the utmost confidence and freedom, have a 
delicate meaning and beauty which require con- 
sideration that they may be fully apprehended 
and applied with all their natural fitness. These 
words serve various purposes. Some, for exam- 
ple, are called descriptive or picturesque, and are 
designed to make us better acquainted with the 
poetical and spiritual significance of outward 
things. They do not profess to give us anything 
absolutely new and foreign to us, — anything of 
which we have not the germ and capacity within 
ourselves. When their purport is known, we are 
ready with a response, more or less perfect, of 
recognition and sympathy. The light they throw 
must depend partly upon their own suitableness, 
and partly upon our sensibility. Though it 
should appear faint at first, yet, if it be pure, we 
may make it stronger, extend it farther, and not 
only fill out what is directly suggested, but try 
to discover its connection with other things. 



THE STUDY OF OUR OWN LANGUAGE. 225 

The words themselves may be aheady in con- 
stant use for quite common purposes, but, in 
their new and unexpected relation, they have 
this dignified office and suggestive power. 

But how do we learn the great secret wrapped 
up in them ? We see that a foreigner generally 
fails to acquire a perfect, native sense of their 
import. He has not lived from infancy in the 
quiet reception and unconscious study of them, 
and felt how one word is allied to others, and 
how one age, — with its writings, its unrecorded 
traditions and its common style of conversation, 
— flows into another. Mere labor and skill 
might almost as well be applied to create a new 
sense as to infuse into him a home-born percep- 
tion of their whole significance. Hence we may 
suppose that it is enough to be natives in order 
to feel the full inspiration of our own language ; 
that we receive it as we receive our familiar 
prospects, or delightful sounds, or the customs 
and opinions of our common country. And it 
must be admitted that much of its deeper mean- 
ing seems to be drawn in instinctively. We 
cannot name the day or the occasion when a 
throng of happy associations, emotions, I had 
almost said sensations, began to cluster round a 
certain word ; while, perhaps, we well remember 
others, which had a glory about them, in some 
particular passage, that at once filled us with 
light and animation, but which a life's study of 



226 THE STUDY OF OUR OWN LANGUAGE. 

definitions would never have disclosed to us. 
We may concede all this to the power of intui- 
tion or instant revelation, without making an 
artistic observation of our language less neces- 
sary. For the object is to carry out a work 
already begun, by perfecting what we have ac- 
quired, and by discovering, it may be, new vir- 
tues and uses in words which we have learned 
to prize for their unexpected capabilities. Be- 
sides, we are put upon the inquiry whether we, 
too, may not make original applications of well- 
known terms, which shall be in strict accordance 
with the genius of our language, and thus add 
to its wealth without enlarging its vocabulary. 
These things will require more study than might 
at iirst be expected in a case where discoveries 
often appear to be spontaneous, and are, no 
doubt, frequently unpremeditated. We call, 
then, not only the imaginative and susceptible, 
but the vigilant and comparing, to the examina- 
tion of this class of words, that their power of 
moving and expressing the mind may be better 
understood and increased. 

If there be difficulty and need of study in a 
case like this, what may we not expect when Ave 
come to the great mass of general terms, — the 
conventional signs of abstract and most complex 
ideas, — the analysis of which is a trial for the 
keenest intellects. If they were consecrated to 
the service of careful philosophers, there might 



THE STUDY OF OUR OWN LANGUAGE. 227 

be hope that they would be ap}D]ied intelligently 
and convey something definite. But they are 
freely used and as freely received by the ill- 
informed and unreflecting, with perfect assur- 
ance that their vague and dreamy apprehension 
of them is knowledge ; and no doubt, even 
among such persons, they make, on the whole, 
a pretty correct though not a very distinct 
impression. But let a sturdy, popular phrase 
or a flashing metaphor suddenly drop among 
these hazy generalities, and how quickly the 
clouds scatter. The listless common people 
begin to see and feel to some purpose. Still, 
as we cannot do without general terms, even 
when we address the multitude, the student is 
to define them as well as he may to his 
own mind, so that he may employ them with 
all the exactness and vigor they will admit. 
The difference in men is wonderful in this 
respect ; and it arises partly, we allow, from 
greater sagacity and natural strength and quick- 
ness of apprehension in some, though far more 
from careful and habitual observation of their 
language, and from a religious abhorrence of 
the practice of casting forth words at random, 
in full faith that, in their grand dimness, they 
will pass for oracles. 

It seems then that to be faithful to ourselves 
and to our language, we must, in the use of it, 



228 THE STUDY OF OUR OWN LANGUAGE. 

have other helps than those which belong to us 
all as mere natives. I shall speak of one only, 
which, though of a very general character, ad- 
mits of many practical applications. And this 
is, — the help to be derived from habitual and 
hearty familiarity with those writers who, how- 
ever distant from each other in time, or however 
various in style and genius, are yet honored 
generally for their masterly use of English. 
This is the true way to establish a thoroughly 
native and a thoroughly scholar-like knowledge 
and employment of the language. It brings all 
other aids to the proof, and perfects those that 
are of value. 

The advantage which I have particularly in 
mind, is the liberal view which such a familiarity 
opens to us of our great common possession. 
We learn that our language has a long history 
of its formation and resources, with one spirit 
running through it from the beginning, to give 
perpetual proof of national identity, and to 
make perpetual acknowledgment of our debt 
to the first rude formers, who, though rarely 
cited now as authorities, still survive in the 
character which they early stamped on our 
speech. Thus, without acquiring a particle of 
what can properly be called antique in our 
diction, we are sure to possess ourselves of all 
that is alive in the language from the moment 
that it had anything like a literary being. We 



THE STUDY OF OUR OWN LANGUAGE. 229 

understand its whole theory and practice. A 
student, who feels himself to be one of sach a 
venerable brv-^therhood, is like a good subject 
who lives under an old, slowly formed constitu- 
tion of government. He loves to boast of his 
lineage and his ancient liberties. He has a 
history to take pride in. He is careful to make 
all needed alterations in the spirit of the old 
institutions. He frowns upon the presumptu- 
ous innovator, who, ignorant of their character 
and object, is ready to sacrifice both by addi- 
tions and changes the most hostile. 

Such a generous sense of relationship with 
all the past in our literature is the true spirit to 
carry into all that follows. See from what bad 
ways it may save us : — First, from all servile 
hunting for authority in an individual favorite 
or in a particular school, as if it were in the 
power of any one man or of any set of men 
to exemplify all the compass of a language. 
Better still, it saves us from a narrow interpre- 
tation of the rule that we must studiously con- 
form to the standard of our own time. The 
rale is good. The abuse of it is in making 
fashion, whim, prejudice, our standard. The 
authority of mere fashion is, I admit, extensive 
and imposing ; but it may not last half a gener- 
ation ; and all the time it is trifling with the 
language and with us. The greatest writers 
may unconsciously be harmed by it ; but they 
20 



230 THE STUDY OF OUR OWN LANGUAGE. 

will never conform knowingly to its shallow 
and ephemeral exactions. They will rather con- 
sent to be unpopular, to be pitied, derided, it 
may be envied, for theh' independence, than 
voluntarily separate themselves from the im- 
mortals who write for all ages, who choose 
what is best in the language as they find it and 
help to make it durable. 

But caution follows closely upon indulgence ; 
and, at the risk of seeming to take back some- 
thing that has just been said, I recommend to 
young writers not to think too much of their 
liberties. Our literary freedom may cost us a 
struggle ; and so may the power to use and 
enjoy it well. It is not a very easy thing to 
learn how far we may lawfully go, nor very 
agreeable to respect the bounds which we know 
we ought not to pass. 

No one, I suppose, will contend that the lan- 
guage is beyond improvement ; but the pre- 
sumption should be in its favor as it stands, 
and reasons should be required for changes. 
For example, new facts must have suitable 
names or terms of description ; but at least let 
us be certain that the facts brought to our 
notice are new ; for men are not only fond of 
being discoverers, but also of thinking that an 
idea is more decidedly, unquestionably new, if 
it be newly apparelled. If, however, we have 
proper cases to provide for, let us study to make 



THE STUDY OF OUR OWN LANGUAGE. 231 

the addition look as much like good, home-born, 
trustworthy English as we can. 

Then we are to guard against the undue 
influence of contemporary tastes and habits of 
speech. But the dread of our peril may drive 
us into eccentricity, conceit, and unreasonable 
attachment to our own ways. A degree of 
unconscious mannerism often throws a pleasant 
and instructive light upon a man's habits, his 
education, and even his cast of mind. So, 
every mark of genuine originality is to be 
prized. But very honest and very eminent 
writers are liable to literary infirmities, and are 
sometimes willing to be noted for peculiarities 
in the merest trifles. Some favorite word, which 
pleased them partly for being uncommon, and 
which perhaps had excellent effect while it con- 
tinued to be so, appears too frequently and is 
spoiled by overfondling. Readers even begin 
to suspect poverty from the repetition. It cer- 
tainly shows narrow partiality. 

On the other hand, our license is not to be 
surrendered, but w^ell used. Men of the best 
taste may often find it expedient to abandon 
much of the phraseology of their time, merely 
because it has become hackneyed. Sometimes 
the choicest words, which appear almost conse- 
crated to the higher departments of literature, 
become a popular or fashionable cant ; and 
hence the thorough English scholar may think 



232 THE STUDY OF OUR OWN LANGUAGE. 

he should do them wrong by using them in a 
degenerate age. If he adopts in their place 
some simple terms, which people generally do 
not use for such a purpose, he is unreasonably 
charged with oddness, with a love of strange 
things, and with proudly separating himself 
from his neighbors. — Again, without passing 
the true boundaries or violating the legitimate 
use of the tongue, he may seek for novelty of 
expression that he may give a new air, a striking 
grace and effect to a familiar truth, or do justice 
to an original conception of his own. The 
freshness with which things come to his mind, 
the novel though natural views which he takes 
of them, justify and may require something 
unusual in his expression. 

Bat it is time to put an end to remarks of 
this sort. My object, a moment ago, was to 
recommend prudence, and now I am again 
vindicating liberty. In leaving the subject, I 
may express a hope that my young friends will 
feel some pride in doing their part to keep the 
old landmarks distinct, — the ancient wells pure. 



CLEARNESS OE EXPRESSION AND 
OF THOUGHT. 



Since words are representations, however 
imperfect, of what passes in the mind, and are 
suggested and warranted by its operations and 
wants, we need not be surprised that they are 
used and spoken of as if they were themselves 
the things they stand for, and that they should 
be applied as tests or proofs of our thinking 
clearly and correctly. They are mental express- 
ions ; and in studying them we are studying 
the mind and human nature itself. Hence, for 
the practical purposes of rhetoric, we insist 
that a part of our training should direct us 
to inquire into the full force of words as suck; 
that is, not merely with reference to a present 
special demand, but to make as perfect to our 
selves as we can the established instrument 
preserver, and medium of human thought, and 
have it always ready for service.. 

There is no occult method of obtaining this 
mastery of language. We are dealing with the 
20* [233] 



234 CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSIOx\ AND THOUGHT. 

common property of a country, and must go 
to the common fountain of all good speech. 
But we have a serious work on oar hands, 
and one that requires and will reward all the 
ability we can bring to it. We must observe 
how others speak and write who are thought to 
do well, and recall what we have done ourselves 
when, in our own belief at least, we knew per- 
fectly what we meant, and what we were pre- 
paring to say. "We must accustom ourselves to 
the analysis of terms, and follow down their 
history from their primitive use through the 
changes they have experienced and the various 
purposes to which they have been applied by 
many sagacious and self-relying minds. By 
such methods we may learn well how to assist 
our mental processes ; and they in turn, by their 
brightness and vigor, will promote an habitual 
force and vigor of expression. We hope, then, 
that the student will provide himself with an 
ample array of fully comprehended words to 
wait faithfully upon both his feeble thoughts 
and his strong ones. 

But how are we to know that they will be 
appropriate till the ideas themselves are already 
well-defined in our minds ? We do not wish 
to involve ourselves in a matter that does not 
belong to us, and willingly leave it to others to 
clear up the difficulties that beset the relations 
between thought and language. But we may 



CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSION AND TilOUGFIT. 235 

venture to say (at least so far as rhetoric is con- 
cerned) that ideas cannot be well-defined in oar 
minds, unless they are already wrapped in ap- 
propriate tern:is. We want to provide for such 
as may stand in need of help. Perhaps the 
service of suitable terms in setthng and defining 
ideas may be illustrated by taking a most des- 
titute and unpromising case. If their useful 
ministry is acknowledged in this, it will not 
probably be doubted in any. Suppose then that 
a man has dim and wandering phantoms in his 
brain, — not so properly ideas as glimpses of he 
hardly knows what. Of course, his signs for 
these will have a like uncertainty. Still there 
may be something in the cloud that is worth 
extricating. Accordingly, to so much of the 
phantom as he can seize upon he applies the 
test of what seem to him fitting words, that he 
may determine something. In this way he will 
very soon discover whether his mind is busy 
with a mere chimera, a shadow, that scorns 
definition and close handling, or he will see the 
dim conception swelling into full proportion in 
broad day. 

The views here offered relate to ideas as they 
exist in the mind. "When they are to be 
communicated, other considerations spring up. 
Many persons are well satisfied that if we but 
think clearly we must express ourselves clearly. 
It ought to be so, and naturally would be so. 



236 CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSION AND THOUGHT. 

But there are obstructions. Any man, who has 
had near acquaintance with the action of other 
minds, must often have had sufficient evidence 
of good thoughts there, struggling, and for a 
time in vain, to make their way forth success- 
fully. The difficulties arising from constitu- 
tional infirmity, from want of practice in writing 
or public speaking, from ignorance of what 
readers and hearers require, are yet to be mas- 
tered. Consider, moreover, the faults arising 
from well-founded confidence. Rhetoricians 
have been careful to remind us that the more 
distinct our ideas are to ourselves, the less 
clearly we may place them before others. We 
forget that while a glance at a mere hint is 
enough for us, a gi'eat deal more than a hint is 
needed by them. Remember, then, the neces- 
sities of those whom you address. If they were 
all along, of themselves^ in the same train of 
thought with you, the case might be different. 
But this you have no right to pre-suppose.* 

For want of a better single word to express 
appropriateness of diction and definiteness of 
ideas, and as it is very convenient to have one 
at hand, I shall include both under Precision^ 
and proceed to some views of this quality and 
of the means of acquiring it. 

And first, it is quite distinct from primness,. 
from constrained formality, from a fastidious, 

* Whately's Elements of Rhetoric, Part iii. Chap. i. § 3. 



CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSION AND THOUGHT. 237 

over-exact manner of expression, denoting timid- 
ity or self-distrust in some, and in' others an 
anxiety to apprize the reader of a certain forci- 
ble condensation, an oracular brevity in their 
style. A man may use few words, give his 
sentences the form of maxims, reject all orna- 
ment, avow it to be his highest ambition to be 
plain,- simple and neat ; still his compactness 
shall be mere affectation, and betray, every 
moment, vagueness, ostentation and awkward- 
ness; while another shall be free, graceful and 
inclined to amplification, yet with precision for 
one of his marked excellences. 

I do not suppose that definition or description 
will make so familiar a term more intelligible, 
and it may be enough for the present purpose 
to say that precision consists in the use of such 
words only as our ideas demand of right and 
necessity. It takes no notice of such distinc- 
tions between words as their being used for 
description, or passion, or narrative, or for the 
simplest possible statement, but holds itself to 
be an attainable and equally essential property 
in all cases, and insists equally upon its rights 
and upon its nicest limitations in all cases. It 
makes no compromise ; it grants no dispensa- 
tion ; and it sees no reason for any. While 
then, on Us oivn account^ it requires nothing for 
beauty or luxury, it rejects on every account all 
needless circumlocution, and the use of epithets 



238 CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSION AND THOUGHT. 

or garniture of any kind for show. It regards 
not sound or appearance in the very few cases 
where attention to these must be at the ex- 
pense of vigor and clearness. In short, it wages 
war with superfluity in every shape ; for though 
superfluity is often graceful, and to many a 
delightful relief, it never fails to weaken the 
general effect. 

Yet, as we have already hinted, precision is 
far from being niggardly and austere. It is too 
liberal and wise to interfere with natural differ- 
ences of manner. Let the style be compressed 
or flowing, plain or gorgeous, abrupt or regular, 
temperate or heated ; let the composition be in 
prose or verse, and the subject or occasion what 
it may ; let the writer or speaker follow out his 
humor and taste, vary his tone as he sees best, 
and take his own way of producing effect, — pre- 
cision is merely indifferent on all such points. 
But so far as any speech or writing is well done, 
it claims to be the strengthening, and in no small 
degree, the illuminating power throughout. 

With all these high pretensions, it is a modest 
virtue, and its effect upon others may be great 
without their suspecting the cause. The orator 
and writer must be prepared to forego a part of 
their deserved praise, if they adhere to it ; but 
they will be pleased to see those they address 
engaged upon something higher than the graces 
or even the energies of style ; that they are not 



CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSION AND THOUGHT. 239 

following words as so many pleasing sounds 
which are lulling them into di'eams, but that 
they fee] on all hands the pressure of well-defined 
thoughts or earnest passion. 

But what we are most concerned with is the 
effect of precision upon the speaker or writer 
himself. How invigorating is this modest vir- 
tue. A sincere, strong-minded man would have 
a fatal misgiving at his heart, a chill of conscious 
im^becility creeping over him, should he ever find 
himself uttering words at random, or for the pur- 
pose of filling up vacancies, or rounding off sen- 
tences, or as a sort of phantasmagoria to create 
illusions. But he is strengthened and animated 
by the constant succession of ideas distinctly 
embodied, and as visible to himself as he intends 
they shall be made to others. 

One means of promoting precision is the habit 
of putting our thoughts on paper. T will not 
undertake to number the occasions when the 
practice would be useful, or to explain very con- 
fidently what it might seem affectation to call 
the mysterious power of a recorded word. My 
chief reliance is upon the evidence that a fair 
trial will furnish. I believe it will be found that 
there is no better way for a man to get clear and 
connected views of any subject that perplexes 
him, than to write as distinctly as he can the 
thoughts that occur to him upon it. I admit 



240 CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSION AND THOUGHT. 

that there is a difference in men in this respect, 
owing to a difference in their power of concen- 
trating their attention upon a subject by mere 
force of will, and of carrying on protracted trains 
of thought in private meditation. But even 
.lose who are most practised and most success- 
ful in this way, — provided they are not too 
indolent or self-satisfied to make the experiment, 
— will find writing a great help. The process 
itself implies pains and deliberation. The eye 
being fixed upon the word, a sense of responsi- 
bility for the expression is quickened ; and more 
care being required, the power of expression is 
likely to be better estimated and much enlarged. 
The eye being fixed upon the written record, a 
wholeness of view is probably better secured 
than it would be by sole reliance upon memory, 
and thus the opportunity and means of correc- 
tion are always close at hand. 

The practice may be recommended to a 
student meditating upon his regular exercise in 
original composition, with little to say, and that, 
as he thinks, very poor. His condition may not 
answer fully to that of the man we lately de- 
scribed as haunted with spectres of ideas ; but 
such ideas as he has are uncertain and fleeting. 
He cannot take hold of anything definite and 
encouraging. Even his reading upon his subject 
distracts him with its variety of information and 
opinions. But let him once preserve, in the best 



CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSION AND THOUGHT. 241 

words he has at command, some one idea. which 
flits before him, and immediately a neighboring 
thought shall come to the light, and then others 
with ever-multiplying relations and an ever-in- 
creasing distinctness. He might have this idea 
floating about in his mind for hours as a subject 
of meditation or reverie, without any adequate 
conception of its bearings ; but now, in a fixed, 
visible form, it seems to put his mind in order, 
and prepare it for manful enterprises which it 
had shrunk from before. 

I suppose it is a common opinion that extem- 
poraneous speaking excludes all preparation by 
writing, beyond the simplest noting down of 
prominent topics and of the places where they 
should be brought in. But by courtesy or usage 
many a celebrated discourse is called extempo- 
raneous, which, it is well understood, was fully 
written out beforehand. It was not thus pre- 
pared to be repeated in the very words and order 
of the written paper ; for this might deprive it 
most injuriously of the extemporaneous manner. 
But the orator sought by a study of this kind for 
a mastery of his subject, and of the best way to 
present it, which mere thinking would not give 
him. He is still at full liberty to catch inspira- 
tion from all that surrounds him in the assembly, 
from all that occurs at the time of speaking. 

The effect of writing down our thoughts is 
often experienced when we least seek or desire 
21 



242 CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSION AND THOUGHT. 

it. A man suffering under heavy affliction may 
have succeeded, by great effort, in suppressing 
all violent manifestation of grief. He is able to 
divert his thoughts and to strengthen himself by 
turning to his common occupations. He can 
speak calmly of his loss. He can meditate upon 
it by himself with many soothing and elevating 
influences. But let him trust himself to write 
of it to another, or even in his private journal, 
and the vagueness which had hung over it for a 
time begins to pass away. At every word it 
grows more distinct. The gates are again 
opened to the tide. A most natural exaggera- 
tion runs through his recollections, his descrip- 
tions and his images of the hopeless future. He 
seems to choose the very words that will add to 
his agony or despair, though, in truth, both are 
exasperated by the mere act of putting his 
thoughts into definite language. Of course, it 
would be mere prudence never to record what 
we may wish to forget. 

I will close with another strictly practical view 
of the subject, which is obviously implied, how- 
ever, in some previous remarks. We are apt to 
think that a scrupulous accuracy in the use of 
words may, in certain departments of literature 
and eloquence, be dispensed with. In contro- 
versies among theologians and metaphysicians, 
we are not surprised to hear much wrangling 
about the terms employed. The disputants 



CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSION AND THOUGHT. 243 

charge each other with ignorantly, carelessly or 
fraudulently perverting a word, and the cause of 
truth itself seems to depend upon settling its 
import. And there is no question that it ought 
to be settled by as exact definitions as can be 
framed. But shall we limit the demands of pre- 
cision to cases like these ? What I contend for 
is, that precise phraseology is equally essential, 
for impression, in a work of taste. Our popular 
or literary speech is as well-suited to affect the 
imagination and feelings, as that of the schools is 
to force home an argument upon the understand- 
ing. If you would act upon any power of the 
mind, you must present things to it in the way 
that nature or custom has made necessary. 

It may be contended that the cases differ, 
since in an argument there is no safety, no con- 
clusiveness, unless we put down everything in 
exact order, and with a severe adherence to defi- 
nitions, as you would in a mathematical process. 
Whereas, in a novel or poem, for example, we 
depend upon men's interest in what we are say- 
ing to overlook omissions, or more properly, to 
gather from our hints, though slightly expressed, 
what we, in the heat of our feelings, could not 
stop to elaborate and complete. 

There is a mistake, I apprehend, in both these 
statements. Even in an argument, let men be 
ever so cold, wary and captious', there is much 
left out by common consent, as there is also in 



244 CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSION AND THOUGHT. 

every-day conversation. So in a literary work, 
however brief, hurried and abrupt we may be, 
how much soever we may leave the reader to 
supply, yet the little Ave do say must be enough 
to give him the power and make it a delightful 
employment to him to supply it. A single word 
may set the mind on fire, but the word itself 
must burn. 

And this reminds me that a writer should be 
guarded against the ambition of producing vast 
effects by single, striking words. It is one of the 
mistakes into which the young are apt to fall, 
that a certain glorious, exorbitant phraseoloofy is 
the most impressive; that it denotes an exuber- 
ance of the poetical or oratorical power, which 
always carries its own excuse for its worst ex- 
cesses ; — at any rate, that the great majority are 
captivated by grand sounds more than by a con- 
viction that some dull proser is uttering indispu- 
table wisdom. If this were true, yet it is hardly 
fair to practise upon human infirmity ; and it is 
almost as bad to fail in a duty we owe to litera- 
ture. But I am satisfied that the fact is directly 
the other way. I believe that showy writing is 
always cold, and reaches but a very little way 
below the surface of men's minds ; and that, 
take the world together, we shall, whether as 
orators or writers, always have the greatest and 
longest infiuence by substantial matter in the 
diction that becomes it. 



CLEARNESS OF EXPRESSION AND THOUGHT. 245 

There is the widest difference, you well know, 
between propriety and tameness, between sim- 
plicity and feebleness. We need not be cold to 
be correct, nor ostentatious to be eloquent. We 
may be as magnificent, as vehement as our 
nature will prompt or allow us to be, and all the 
while violate no rule of sound criticism ; indeed, 
all the while owe our success to a careful ob- 
servance of precision. 

The fear is not uncommon or unnatural that 
habits of vigilance must prevent or impair free- 
dom and ease, since they imply habitual self- 
distrust. But what are we watchful aofainst ? 
Does the well-grown boy lose all the ease and 
freedom of infancy, because accidents have 
taught him habits of prudence ? Are you likely 
to write with less courage and energy, because 
you have learned to be on your guard against 
errors that do you wrong and balk your pur- 
pose ? Never fear self-restraint, unless you 
practise it to succeed in something bad. 
21* 



USING WORDS POR ORNAMENT. 



For some reason, which I may not fully un- 
derstand, the criticisms which I have offered to 
the students upon their use of figurative lan- 
guage, appear to me to have been received with 
less favor, or with less apprehension of my mean- 
ing, than those upon other matters. Some have 
told me that they supposed I preferred to have 
words used in their proper instead of their sec- 
ondary sense ; and that I looked distrustfully 
upon whatever bore marks of ornamental or 
uncommon expression. I have taken no other 
pains to set them right than to say that my 
objections in cases like these were never to the 
form of speech itself, but were always directed 
to some particular point then before me ; that I 
liked a good figure as well perhaps as any 
reader, but that I could not help being offended 
with what appeared to me to be a bad one, or 
an unskilful management of such as were un- 
questionably good. 

[246] 



USING WORDS FOR ORNAJMENT. 247 

This of course left room for difference of 
tastes ; and this I wished. I allow full force to 
the argument founded on such a difference. 
But no one will seriously dispute that taste has 
its laws, and that there are laws for figurative 
speech as well settled as for any other use of lan- 
guage. A bold genius may sometimes violate 
them with grand effect ; but what connection is 
there between this fact and a critical exercise at 
school or college ? We are trying here to learn 
the law and the principle, — not the glorious dis- 
pensations which are allowed to great men. The 
teacher gives the pupil what he holds to be a 
good and safe rule ; but he cannot undertake to 
instruct him in those licenses which are some- 
times conceded to mature and commanding 
genius. 

Tlie rule then, as I understand it, I bring up 
as an authority against positive faults. I urge 
the reason of the rule and refer to what are 
deemed good examples. But none of you know 
how many passages, which, in strict rhetoric, 
violate the rule, I nevertheless suffer to remain 
untouched, because their departure from the 
canon is spirited ; because it breaks the monot- 
ony of studied accuracy ; and because it shows 
that the writer was heartily occupied with his 
thought and sincere in his expression. I never 
fear such faults as these. Still, it might not be 
safe to praise or even to take notice of them. 



248 USING WORDS FOR ORNAMENT. 

Probably, inexperienced writers would, in gen- 
eral, unduly value a brilliant and successful error 
into which they had fallen unconsciously, and 
begin to hold the rule in little respect. The 
ordinary violations of the rule, therefore, are the 
most proper objects of notice in such critical 
exercises as are appointed here. 

These explanations remind me of the frequent 
remark that the written exercises of our students, 
on all occasions, are far from abounding in those 
ornaments and extravagances which are com- 
monly expected in the young. I may have been 
less mindful of this from my attention being 
chiefly engaged to see whether they express 
themselves intelligibly in good English. But 
supposing the remark to be correct, how is the 
fact to be explained ? Perhaps the genius of the 
place is severer than that which presides over 
some other academical retreats. Perhaps the 
importance attached by our people generally to 
good taste, makes the pupil dread that the mo- 
ment he gives free course to his heart or fancy, 
and raises his diction above the common surface, 
he is venturing upon great literary perils. I can 
only say that, so far as I am concerned, I shall 
rejoice in your courageous use of any term or 
style which comes to you naturally. I am as 
little pleased as you can be with tame inoffen- 
siveness. If I apply correctives, it will be for no 
other purpose than to remove what is incurably 



USING WORDS FOR ORNAMENT. 249 

defective, and to make more perfect what is at 
heart and in the grain sound. What I have now 
to say of figurative language will show my esti- 
mate 'of it pretty clearly. 

I intend to take only one view of it; but I 
must first observe of the word figure^ that it is 
used for different things, and often indefinitely. 
It is sometimes applied to modes of expression 
very distinct from those which come under the 
notice of rhetoric; — for example, to the various 
ways of stating a syllogism, according to the 
position of the middle term. Moreover, rhetori- 
cians are not agreed as to the proper extent of its 
use in their own department. 

If we next attend to popular speech, we shall 
find that most persons seem to employ the word 
without troubling themselves to inquire into its 
origin and history, or the definitions that have 
been given of it. And I doubt whether a 
knowledge of the definitions and derivation 
would help them much. As far as I have ob- 
served the popular use of the term, I have found 
it to be a vague expression for an ornamented, 
glowing, eloquent, poetical manner, but with a 
reference, most commonly^ to metaphors and 
comparisons. A figurative writer is understood 
to be a man of fancy, perhaps of display, who 
seeks to animate and delight us, and as different 
as possible from one who addresses simple state- 
ments, in homely words, to the understanding. 



250 USING WORDS FOR ORNAMENT. 

You perceive that this gives no answer to the 
question, — How came this word to be applied to 
a certain character of style and language ? 

Sometimes the following whimsical explana- 
tion may be heard. As the word figure^ in its 
literal sense, is applied to objects of sight or 
touch, it has been supposed that language was 
called figm'ative when, in our fancies, it gave a 
kind of sensible form or visibility to our ideas. 
This notion probably arose from the fact that we 
have so many tropes which are founded on re- 
semblance, and that we often use similes to make 
our thoughts clearer and more striking through a 
likeness which we can all feel between them and 
things outward. The material and spiritual are 
constantly united for this purpose. But how 
should the inventor of this theory have forgotten 
the innumerable tropes and other classes of fig- 
ures (as they are all called), in which there is not 
the slightest reference to a resemblance between 
the things thus connected, and sometimes when 
there is even a grotesque opposition ? 

The word, in its rhetorical sense, is itself a 
trope, and means, I suppose, some recognized 
and well-defined form or shape of language, in 
which there is commonly a departure, more or 
less striking, fromx the original or proper use. I 
shall have frequent occasion to employ it as a 
general term in the remarks that follow, without 
much regard to precision. But where I must 



USING WORDS FOR ORNAMENT. 251 

speak of any particular class of figures, I will 
call it by name. 

I wish now to direct your attention to what I 
consider as a grave misapprehension in regard to 
the office of figures generally. This misappre- 
hension is, that they are designed chiefly, if not 
wholly, for ornament; that they are superinduced 
and not essential ; that they are purposely added, 
as if episodically, for brilliancy, and are not a 
substantial expression, a perfectly natural and 
unsought vesture of our thoughts. Here I have 
something' to concede, I admit to the full that 
they are beauties, ornaments, bright gems, if you 
please, in the black, rough rock, or it may be a 
secret source of light which mildly irradiates a 
whole scene. In our youthful reading, the next 
thing that attracts us, after a good story, is the 
beauty of similitudes. They are so luminous as 
well as picturesque, that we regard them as lux- 
uries. They are our amusement. We love rich 
foliage and blossoms, and think little at the 
moment of the solid trunk and the slowly-form- 
ing fruit. And later in life, when we are graver 
and more thoughtful, when we are more easily 
taken with what we know to be useful, we are 
still delighted with the splendid images of poetry 
and eloquence. We are willing to pick them 
out of the delicate work into which they have 
been most happily wrought, and look at them, 
recall them, exhibit them to others, for their in- 
dependent beauty. 



252 USING WORDS FOR ORNAMENT. 

Thinii what language would be, as a source 
of pleasure only, if it had not the single class of 
tropes called metaphors. It would be as inele- 
gant, spiritless and impoverished as our minds if 
taste, fancy and the affections were torn from 
them. Suppose that the metaphor had been in- 
troduced into discourse at a late period ; that 
we had just discovered that we had capacities to 
invent and enjoy a far more affecting mode of 
expression than the literal, unsuggestive one to 
which we had been confined ; and it would seem 
as if a new creation were opened, and new 
delights were crowding upon us on every side. 
Old things that we had used from necessity 
only or for convenience, would take new forms 
and serve new purposes. It would seem as if 
the touch of magic had been laid on nature and 
on man himself. New powers and sensibility 
are brought to light. A new-born spirit of 
beauty is shed upon the earth, upon the works 
of men's hands and upon human life. Such a 
change in language supposes the introduction 
of poetry itself. 

While we can admit then that there is, to 
some extent, a glory and beauty in figures them- 
selves, we cannot guard too carefully against the 
notion that they are but accidental embellish- 
ments; that they are not an essential part of 
composition ; that they are attached to it, not 
woven into it. If a man uses a figure heartily 



USING WORDS FOR ORNAMENT. 253 

and properly, it will be as indispensable to his 
full communication of his meaning as aiiy form 
of speech ever can be. He did not go out of his 
way for it. He did not spend time in shaping 
and setting it. It came of its own will to incor- 
porate itself with his thought ; and being with 
him the most natural expression, he would do 
harm by adopting another. Moreover, the figures 
that some admire for their supposed independent 
beauty, derive their power o-ver us, first of all, 
from their being naturally suggested by the 
thought which they illustrate and adorn ; and if, 
from a habit of contemplating them separately 
or from any other cause, the connection should 
be lost sight of, the images will lose no small 
part of their charm. 

The metaphor has just been named for its 
beauty and as an object of taste. But we should 
take a narrow view of its use, if we saw nothing 
more in this commonest of the tropes. We owe 
to it an invigorating exercise of our minds in the 
analysis required to discern the true points of 
analogy or resemblance which justify the use of 
the metaphor at all. We owe to it a habit 
of watchfulness, which we acquire by guarding 
against the errors and deceptions to which we 
are exposed from constantly employing or hear- 
ing words that have many related significations. 
On the other hand, should a word maintain in- 
flexibly its original import, and refuse alliance 
22 



254 USING WORDS FOR ORNAIVIENT. 

with anything but its proper object, it will cost 
us nothing but the pains of learning what it 
means, and it will carry us not a step beyond 
itself. Besides these good offices of the meta- 
phor, it does another not less important by call- 
ing in the aid of imagination and fancy, — and 
through these of wit, humor, pathos, and of 
other agencies, — to illustrate, enliven and en- 
force ideas, perhaps such as are least attractive, 
least able to speak for themselves. This service 
it renders in a brief, uninterrupting, familiar way 
which adds to its charm and effect. We must 
then be prepared for more than grace, beauty 
and pleasure in a class of words like this. 

Suppose a man should estimate poetry as 
many estimate figures. Suppose he should re- 
gard it as a delicate, musical, highly-finished, 
and even gorgeous work of art, designed to 
produce a pleasurable excitement or luxurious 
repose. This view, to a certain extent, is right 
enough. Poetry may properly be regarded, in 
one aspect, as a sort of Paradise for the senses. 
It exhilarates us by its various delights, as the 
earth by its forms and colors and sounds. But 
are we to rest in the pleasure, or in the beauty 
as giving us pleasure ? How childish it is to say 
that the grand design of poetry is to please, when 
the remark is applied to King Lear or to Para- 
dise Lost. Is it said that in these cases the sub- 
stantial thought must be the same, whatever the 



USING WORDS FOR ORNAMENT. 255 

mode of presenting it, and that we owe nothing 
to the poet but a better manner? How can this 
be ? Would every man be able to conceive the 
substantial thought as Milton and Shakspeare 
did ? The truth poetically conceived is substan- 
tially different from any other conception of it. 
The difference is not, as some may think, in the 
mode of exhibiting it. Ail those devices and 
beauties of the poetic style, which some fondly 
think might be separated from the main thought 
and admired as distinct decorations, are but so 
many results and indications of poetical concep- 
tion. In no sense are they merely sources of 
pleasure ; but they are also the means by which' 
we are enabled to obtain more or less adequate 
ideas of what is passing in the poet's mind. 
Let us then remember that however we may de- 
light in figurative speech or any of the graces of 
poetry, our estimate of them must be made 
according to the spirit, justness and originality 
with which they set forth the matter in hand. 

Closely allied to the idea that figures are em- 
bellishments purposely attached to our work, is 
another misapprehension ; namely, that we are 
to seek for them, toil for them, do our best to in- 
vent them. Here it is proper to make a distinc- 
tion. Labor and search are allowable when we 
stand in need of parallel cases to illustrate or 
impress some difficult proposition, and when 
they will not come to us of themselves ; and 



256 USING WORDS FOR ORNAMENT. 

should the parallel both answer our purpose and 
prove at the same time to be an ornament, so 
much the better. The ornament is clear gain. 
I do not suppose, however, that labor and search 
will often be necessary, if a man is an active 
thinker. He will probably have more similes 
suggested by his course of thought than he will 
care to employ. Neither do I suppose that 
those which are obtained by study, however 
exact and pertinent they may be, will, on the 
whole, be so spirited and so naturally commingle 
with the principal thought, as those which spring 
up with the thought and are directly suggested 
*by it. On some not otherwise inviting page of 
Locke, I have found a perfect illustrative com- 
parison, — yet so tender and sad that the highest 
strain of elegy could not refuse it. In the midst 
of Franklin's gravest reflections I have met 
with an argumentative comparison so lively and 
picturesque, that satirical or didactic verse could 
not have desired more, and yet doing the work 
of conviction and persuasion at a blow. Neither 
of these bore marks of having been sought for. 

But the misapprehension to which I was di- 
recting your attention, relates to our seeking after 
figures for decoration. There is a very common 
and just impression that they give life to com- 
position, that they arouse and keep up the atten- 
tion, by their grace and vivacity. Why then 
should not every one, who aims to be a useful as 



USING WORDS FOR ORNAMENT. 257 

well as popular writer or speaker, make it a busi- 
ness to acquire them and have them ready for 
use ? Many a poet of cheerful fancy is believed 
to have fabricated a thought for no other object 
than to place by its side a sparkling illustration 
which was waiting for an occasion. The 
wary punster, perhaps in concert with others, 
gives a turn to conversation which may offer a 
fair opportunity for an anxious jest. The dili- 
gent collector of quotations expects the time 
when he shall coolly turn them to account with 
an off-hand facility. These artifices show that 
the parties are aware of what will please, and 
seem to warrant in some degree the practice we 
are speaking of. 

No doubt it is one way to be popular and at- 
tractive ; and mere parade of any kind has a like 
effect. Mere startling oddity or cloudy mysti- 
cism may be popular and attractive, may be said 
to arouse and keep up attention, though they fix 
it wholly upon themselves. He who hides good 
matter under a heap of flowers, may be a greater 
favorite for his decorations, than he might have 
been if his good matter had been distinctly seen 
standing alone. But our present business is not 
with pretenders and showmen, but with good 
writers and with permanent principles. Our 
warning to the young writer is, never to suppose 
that there is any genuine vigor and warmth in 
embellishment. The peril is, false glitter and 
22* 



258 USING WORDS FOR ORNAMENT. 

universal tawdriness. The idea being once 
adopted that figures are essential to vivacity and 
a sure mark of elegance, — they will be brought 
in on all occasions. Ambition and habit will 
soon make the manufacture the easiest thing in 
the world. Let a man's original resources be 
very slender and his fancy most inert ; yet, if he 
have ingenuity and a love of display, he will find 
in the commonplaces of poetry, in fable, in his- 
tory, in new inventions and old customs, in a 
resort to any quarter, something that he can force 
into his service. Nothing is more easily filled 
than a toy-shop. A little varnish and gold leaf 
and paint will make almost anything look well 
enough to inconsiderate eyes. 

But while we condemn this show of made-up 
finery, we must not forget that caution is needed 
in a wholly different quarter. The imagination 
itself, under the most genuine excitement, may 
pour forth its real beauties as rapidly and pro- 
fusely as the false rhetorician can fabricate his 
trinkets, and with scarcely less injury, unless its 
exercise is tempered by a well-formed taste. 
There is no other security against its unseason- 
able incursions. 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 



There are tokens, it is supposed, which may 
enable the reflecting and sagacious to be trust- 
worthy prophets of an author's future place in 
the judgments and affections of men. At the 
least, by inquiring into the matter they may set- 
tle to their own satisfaction some points that 
appear to be pertinent and of importance. They 
are to consider whether a book has properties 
that are essential to its perpetuity. Of course 
they must bring to the investigation, or obtain 
from it, a knowledge of readers as well as of 
writers, and try to discover something which 
may always be relied upon in the tastes of one 
p .rty, and in the means which the other has 
chosen to gratify them. My principal object is 
to suggest some of the points that may occur to 
them in the course of their inquiry. 

I shall begin with citing a passage from the 
correspondence of Richardson, the novelist, in 
which he takes up the subject at an early stage. 

[259] 



260 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

' I am of opinion,' he says, ' that it is necessary 
for a genius to accommodate itself to the mode 
and taste of the world it is cast into, since works 
published in this age must take root in it, to 
flourish in the next.' * This remark is not cited 
for the purpose of controverting it ; else, we 
might object to its urging upon authors an undue 
deference to the demands of their contempora- 
ries. We might further object to its want of 
accuracy ; for some men of genius, though they 
resisted prevailing tastes and opinions, have at 
once carried the world with them ; others have 
triumphed, after death, over the neglect or un- 
popularity of more than their own age ; and 
some writings of great consideration and author- 
ity are never classed among works which are 
objects of general notice and admiration. The 
closing remark, however, in the passage just 
quoted, may be so interpreted as to suggest a 
truth that deserves attention. 

In one sense, then, a man of letters must take 
root in his own age, to flourish afterwards 
Though he should live in what he thinks to be a 
very inauspicious state of things, and be pro- 
voked to say, in contempt or sorrow, that he has 
fallen on evil days, that no one is ready to receive 
him, that he must look beyond the present for 
his judges ; yet, in making this sad avowal, he 
forgets that from the men of that barren and 
* Correspondence, &c. Vol. I. p. 121. 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 261 

benighted age, as well as from himself and his 
reading, he must learn enough of mankind and 
of what constitutes human life, to make himself 
welcome in the ever-varying ages that are to fol- 
low. The warm spirit of humanity which he is 
to breathe into all coming time, must be kindled 
then, and in great part by means of the things 
about him ; — how true soever it may be that the 
immortal element will soar above the instruction 
which developed it, and drop, day by day, the 
aids that might now be hindrances. If his 
studies lie in any sphere which connects him 
with the common feelings and interests of his 
kind, his school must be in his daily walks 
among men. Human nature in books alone will 
not serve him. He must study it also in the 
living subject. His neighbors, rude and unlet- 
tered it may be, must teach him how to read it. 
He must prove it by the test of his own experi- 
ence, and set it before the distant ages as he 
learned it in his own home. 

But he is not bound to the age in which he 
lives by its merely offering him the best means 
of studying men and life. It further presents 
him with the language of his country in the state 
in which he must use it. However delightedly 
and profitably he may study it through its whole 
history, and however originally he may apply its 
rich stores or even add to them, he is to employ 
it mainly as the speech best fitted for the men of 



262 PERMANENT LITERARY FAJNIE. 

his day, because it best expresses the mind, the 
tastes and the wants of his day. Tn fact, so far 
as it has present peculiarities, it owes them to 
circumstances under which he and his country- 
men have grown up, and which therefore have 
become part of himself and of them. To depart 
from it rudely would be an act of violence, and 
ultimately, if not immediately, take much from 
his usefulness and attraction. 

Connected with the language, as it exists in 
his day, are the forms or habits of thought which 
then prevail, and the current of opinion, so far at 
least as it has marks of constancy. These will 
and must have power over him. He will natu- 
rally and obviously partake of them. He ought 
to be as familiar with the spirit and tendencies 
of the times as if he lived and wrote merely for 
the passing hour ; not for the sake of winning 
the voices of his neighbors by unworthy com- 
pliance with their tastes, or (which would be as 
little creditable) to defy, ridicule and exasperate 
them ; but that he may study mankind in the 
people about him, and human life in the aspect 
which they present of it. He may be strongly 
tempted to make brilliant sketches of the times 
for immediate effect ; but a book need not be 
ephemeral because its subject is of the present 
day, and though its materials be drawn from the 
humblest quarter or from the most frivolous 
experience of the highest. He must then main- 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 263 

tain, at every hazard, his self-respect, his inde- 
pendence and originality ; but he should not for 
a moment wish to throw off his allegiance to the 
present, and make himself an artificial, complex 
thing, composed of selected excellencies which 
he has discovered in various countries and 
times. 

We need not name other ties that bind an 
author to his own age. What we would make 
prominent is, that he must recognize and know 
how to employ the facts before him. He can 
borrow none from any other quarter that w^il] fill 
the place and do the work of those which make 
up his personal experience at home. The im- 
press that he may bear of his familiarity with 
other countries and times will never be quite so 
natural and agreeable as that which he receives 
from the age and scenes in which he has been 
brought up. His faculties must be brought 
out and his charact/Cr moulded by powers from 
abroad ; and those which are nearest and the 
first to be felt are almost sure to prevail. Among 
these are his condition of life, the facts that press 
early upon his notice, familiar objects and occur- 
rences, his associates, occupations and amuse- 
ments. In this seemingly straitened and humble 
sphere, the prevailing religion of the country, its 
climate and natural features, its inspiring tradi- 
tions, its old social usages, its political revolu- 
tions, and, perhaps, its long nourished jealousy 



264 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

of rival neighbors, are exercising their more im- 
posing but not more active influences. 

Here then, at home, a power not readily de- 
fined is silently acting upon us all, as if to do its 
work more effectually by never putting us upon 
our guard. It begins with us so early, and pre- 
pares us so naturally to take in the variety of 
great and minute experiences which we must 
pass through, that the process never seems to be 
irregular or disturbed, and the result, as we might 
suppose, is sufficiently harmonious. We are not 
like travellers abroad, to whom things are not 
only new, but felt to be new, — each demanding 
attention to itself, and the relations of which to 
each other must be carefully studied, before the 
stranger can give to all collectively an air of 
unity and consistency. The most perfect same- 
ness in all that is external to us, the unvaried 
repetition of our lives from day to day could not 
be more free from dissonance and struggle, in its 
effect upon the mind, than the experience of a 
native within his own borders. Yet there is as 
little of monotony as of effort. The harmony 
that grows up in this endless diversity is not the 
mere work of instinct. We in part create it for 
ourselves — we pass through changes peacefully, 
but not without consciousness and intelligence. 

Such a course of early, out-of-school education 
does more than contribute to form the mind of 
individual writers. It gives a peculiar and uni- 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 265 

versally recognized distinction to men as belong- 
ing to a community, and, through them, to its 
literature. Hence it may be thought proper that 
I should speak of other powers which are acting 
to produce this effect. But I make no attempt 
at a full enumeration, and readily omit several 
which to some minds may appear of first rate 
importance in laying open a subject of this kind. 
I have not named original differences of race as 
a cause of national and literary diversity, for I 
am chiefly concerned to speak of external influ- 
ences. Partly for the same reason, I do not take 
into the account the original differences of indi- 
vidual minds, and, preeminent among these, the 
varieties of genius. Besides, if we look at the 
matter strictly, these are not, perhaps, to be re- 
garded as peculiar to any soil or any age of the 
world. Though we ascribe to them what is 
called individuality, yet they do not set a dis- 
criminating mark upon literature as national, 
except so far as they are touched and shaped by 
the same influences which act upon the mass of 
the people. Again, I have not named science, 
letters and art among the forming agencies of 
which I am speaking ; for, important as they are 
in regard to the development of the faculties, to 
intellectual enterprise, to refinement, to liberality 
of opinion, to our pleasures, to our resources of 
thought, and to the fame of individuals and 
states, — yet they are the common property of 
23 



2G6 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

advanced civilization everywhere ; and, being 
freely interchanged, they are more likely to bring 
men of different nations to some degree of re- 
semblance, than to strengthen the distinctions 
between them. I do not know that we can so 
properly say of even the literature of one's own 
country that it gives a character to the people, 
as that it springs from and expresses a character 
already forming,— that it carries forward a work 
already begun, and quickens the process and 
gives stability to the results. Once more, I have 
not thought that the course of these remarks re- 
quired me to consider the unquestionable fact, 
that both national and individual character are 
less observed and less prominent in some writers 
and some classes of composition, than in others. 
Passing by these and other omissions, the view 
of the subject actually presented may appear 
altogether imperfect, because it takes in local 
and present influences only, though we profess 
to be considering the means of gaining general 
and lasting favor as a writer. We began with 
the necessity of his ' taking root in his own age,' 
including in the idea his country and its his- 
tory for the time ; and this period will be thought 
very inconsiderable, as it certainly is when looked 
at as a mere amount of duration. But it must 
not be regarded as a separate fragment. Espec- 
ially, if it be an era remarkable for light and 
civilization, it must have required many ages to 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 267 

produce it. The long and changeful experience 
of a whole people, widely connected perhaps 
with other states, is concentrated and living in 
our own day. At least, we have all that was 
worth surviving. Then, too, it has, no doubt, 
its glowing future, surpassing, as we think, all 
that has yet been, and soon to be the crowded 
present of other generations. Certainly, this is 
not a very narrow school for any writer's prepa- 
ration. 

Still, some vague fancy may be entertained 
that, since nothing will answer such a purpose 
as we hold out, but a broad, comprehensive 
spirit, with something of the infinite in its con- 
templations, — a whole individual mind, absorbed 
in abstractions and universals, freed, as far as 
may be, from the limitations and perversions to 
which we are exposed in the common course of 
education and daily life, accustomed to look 
upon men, not severally but ' in the gross,' and 
to take world-wide views of human affections, 
relations, capacities and desires, would be the 
most proper power to act forever upon the whole 
race. But, even if it were desirable, we shall 
never meet with such a mind either among great 
or ordinary men. To expand our natures to the 
utmost, and make men as universal as they can 
be made, they must pass through the discipline 
or instruction of particular facts, minute, it may 
be, and seemingly insignificant ; of common 



268 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

things near at hand, such as I have already 
named; of influences the most accidental and 
unconnected, and which probably are quite un- 
observed and beyond our direct control. Often 
from the little events of our lives come the 
grandest conceptions and the boldest enterprises. 
The sympathies which, by and by, are to com- 
prehend the race, must begin with love of our 
neighbors, however obscure and uninspiring they 
may be. 

But why do we demand and even press as an 
essential thing, this strongly-marked, local, per- 
sonal and national character, in a literature which 
we all agree is intended to affect other times and 
countries, besides those in which it had birth ? 
Why not drop, as far as may be, all that is sig- 
nally peculiar, and carefully retain what is uni- 
versal in its tone and spirit? Why should we 
shut up an author's power within the borders of 
his own country, and the period in which he may 
still have something of a modern air? To this it 
may be answered generally, and in accordance 
with the view already taken, that we cannot 
have a great and commanding literature unless 
it grow out of the home character and experience 
of the writers. A few points, which seem to be 
well established by facts, will be a sufficient, if 
not a very formal reply to the questions jnst 
stated, and probably remove all apprehension of 
undue restraints upon authors. 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 269 

If, then, we turn to readers, native and foreign, 
and of whatever period, to learn how they are 
affected by the strongest characteristics of a great 
writer, we observe, as a general thing, that the 
more distinct the stamp he bears of his time and 
country, and we may add of trae individuality, 
the more definitely and effectually is his whole 
mind brought to other minds, the world over ; 
and the more sure it is to keep its hold upon 
them, in spite of any changes which fall short of 
a revolution in human nature itself. Such an' 
effect might naturally be looked for, so far as his 
own people are concerned ; but in the eyes of 
foreigners, too, his peculiarities of whatever de- 
scription, if original and genuine, will have a 
force and vivacity and a sort of personal con- 
firmation in them, which will easily break 
through the obstructions that a foreign speech, 
or foreign habits of any kind may have raised. 
I dwell not upon the advantage of having a fine 
foreign study in our possession, which may ani- 
mate om' curiosity and try our learning and skill. 
But I contend that the strange things in a foreign 
writer are not barely tolerated as being first of all 
intended for his countrymen, and of course per- 
plexing to all others ; but that they will be wel- 
comed for the pungency and native sincerity with 
which they exhibit not only what is new to us, 
but sometimes what is in strong contrast with 
our ways of thinking and acting. The writer's 
23* 



270 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

familiarity with things at home and his pride in 
them give a confident freedom to thought and 
style, and something of that rough bravery and 
indifference to foreign doubts and censure which 
are far from being discreditable to the most gen- 
uine patriotism. He will be liked the better for 
it by the warm-hearted and discriminating of all 
countries, — so sure of favor is a sound, healthy 
feeling or sentiment faithfully addressed to our 
common nature. 

To tamper, then, with the matter and style for 
better reception abroad, would show how fatally 
an author may misapprehend the tastes and ca- 
pacities of his readers, and how strangely he may 
forget that readers of all nations demand of him 
to be just to himself and his opportunities for 
their sakes as well as for his own. If we could 
have an old Greek or a modern Frenchman writ- 
ing in the proper character of a citizen of the 
world, we should see very clearly the advantage 
of leaving men of letters to the inspiration and 
training of their homes. Though men say that 
Shakspeare wrote for the world, they do not 
mean to deny that but for Warwickshire, Lon- 
don and the Age of Elizabeth, he would have 
written for nobody. 

A question may arise, whether the domestic 
education which we have spoken of as inevita- 
ble, will not confine writers to domestic subjects. 
While all agree that abstract truth or general 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 271 

principles belong not to time and place, but are 
equally open and inviting to all cultivated minds, 
yet, when we are to write of human affairs, of 
actions and characters, and of scenes in the out- 
ward world, — such topics, for example, as have 
a fit place in epics, plays, descriptive writing, or 
in narratives real or fictitious, — should not the 
home-training, which forms the mind, direct it to 
home-subjects as the most proper for its exercise 
and most likely to be successfully treated ? Shall 
an English dramatist take a Roman for his hero, 
and surround him with the life and maimers of 
the ancient city ? Shall a German novelist give 
us a story of Aspasia and her times? Shall 
Moore be encouraged to consult libraries full of 
Eastern scenes, habits and creeds, that he may 
prepare a Persian or Egyptian tale ? 

Questions of this character would have sound- 
ed strangely to the Romans in the early period 
of their literature; for their dependence on foreign 
examples and supplies had been unlimited. Yet, 
in time, such questions were to have an answer 
in the commendation which Rome bestowed on 
her writers for turning homew^ard at last for their 
materials. Our own authors, but a few years 
since, were thought to look too much abroad for 
models, and to be unmindful of the original re- 
sources of their country, and of the fact that 
they must expect distinction chiefly from their 
masterly use of their peculiar wealth. We hear 



272 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

little of this complaint now. With regard to the 
writers of both countries, the dependence and 
deference we have spoken of are easily accounted 
for, and, under the circumstances of each, appear 
to have been as natural as their ultimate resort 
to their own treasures. It seems to be in the 
course of things that a decided national spiri 
and character, slowly growing up and gaining 
vigor under the peculiar influences which sur- 
round a people at home, should, in due time, 
direct its writers to topics that are closely con- 
nected with these influences, and which are 
favorable to the establishment of a patriotic sen- 
timent in respect to everything national. The 
idea of a strictly original literature seems to 
imply as much as this. 

But to have a literature of our own does not 
imply the exclusion of foreign materials. Tlie 
practice of writers everywhere, their success, and 
the res a] ting fame of nations are against it. A 
liberal spirit, a healthy curiosity, and the strong 
inclination of many gifted minds are against it. 
Indeed, so far as impression and success are 
concerned, there seems to be no objection to an 
authors selecting a topic from abroad, which 
would not lie against his attempting a work of 
pure imagination, or against a painter's or sculp- 
tor's choosing his subjects from what quarter he 
pleases. Even the jealousy of patriotism need 
not be alarmed, for we may be assured that 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 273 

however remote the field which he explores, the 
settled character of his mind will show itself in 
all its work. The noble studies which it finds in 
foreign countries and libraries, will fall into 
cheerful subordination to a mind already formed 
and established under native impulses and 
direction. 

Let us then leave an author to his sound dis- 
cretion. If he can throw himself heartily into 
his foreign subject, or his imaginary world ; if he 
can make himself so far at home with his real or 
invented persons and scenes, that they become 
both to himself and to us objects of clear con- 
ception and full sympathy ; his purpose may 
be as well answered, and his book shall be as 
thoroughly a part of national literature, as if he 
were engaged upon what are properly called 
domestic facts. Certainly, we impose no hard 
condition upon a man of genius when we require 
thus much of him. Neither do we lessen his 
merit or endanger his triumph by admitting that 
he may show on every page that he is not a 
Roman or Persian, though he should assume to 
'speak as one of these ; that the stamp of his age, 
the atmosphere of ideas about him at home, the 
spirit, the genius of his country may constantly 
betray his origin. His own people are not likely 
to be more mindful of his violation of rigid truth 
and propriety by the infusion of his own charac- 
ter and a national tone, than he is himself ; and 



274 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

probably they will care as little for it as he does. 
There will be no shock and no serious miscon- 
ception. A foreign reader will not be offended 
but amused rather to see how differently the 
same things are viewed by writers of various 
countries. Shakspeare's Brutus is not mine, ex- 
claims the Frenchman; and in the same tone 
would he speak of Hamlet, should he try to re- 
duce the ideal to the French apprehension and 
taste. Still, no reader of any nation doubts that 
he is contemplating, in the poet's ideal, a strong 
conception of as real a personage as can be found 
in the actual, common world. One basis of 
character, one body of truth is acknowledged by 
all, — a distinct original is in the minds of all, 
however it may be modified by the genius of 
writers or the apprehension of readers, — and this 
is enough. 

It is not without reason, however, that readers 
are anxious lest accounts of grave matters of 
fact should be mutilated or clouded by the intru- 
sion of individual views and impressions. I do 
not know that a wise old Athenian (though 
admitting the general accuracy with which noto- 
rious facts are related) would be perfectly satis- 
fied with the modern historian's interpretation of 
the policy and motives of the Greeks, or of innu- 
merable obscure agencies which appear to have 
greatly affected the course of affairs. Will dis- 
trust and caution ever be wholly needless in re- 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 275 

gard to historical statements ? Nevertheless, we 
think it something to have the views of a fair 
and sagacious mind, upon transactions which are 
variously represented. It is in the variety of 
exhibitions that we often find an opening to the 
highest certainty which can be reached concern- 
ing human affairs. Even the distorted accounts 
of a strong modern partisan are not without use 
in giving a new face to ancient things, which 
had been long and carelessly regarded in but a 
single light, and in showing us how the same 
human nature, under varied impulses, will find a 
proper aliment, in the same topic, for the most 
diverse creeds, prejudices and tempers. Finally, 
it may be doubted whether the historians of their 
own country and the biographers of their own 
great men differ less, or disfigure truth less, than 
they do in treating of foreign states or foreign 
worthies. 

I have here suggested, as a point likely to 
occur to those who are inquiring into a writer's 
prospects of long-continued remembrance, that 
to be well received, not only at home in his own 
day, but in times and countries far from, and, it 
may be, very unlike his own, he must be edu- 
cated like other people, under influences that will 
make him national, and, to some extent, a repre- 
sentative of the period in which he lives. But 
this far-spread and perpetual welcome implies 



276 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

that, notwithstanding the alleged narrowing ten- 
dencies of a writer's home education, and though 
his studies should be of subjects the most par- 
ticular and minute, — of the plant by his own 
brook-side, or of the mountain shepherd who 
takes care of his flock, — his tone and spirit must 
be eminently comprehensive and unexclusive. 
He need not be thinking every moment of uni- 
versal beauty or of the whole race to which he is 
bound ; but he must have and show that per- 
vading sense of both, which will give to his most 
studied individual sketch and to meditations the 
most personal, a wide relation, and the power 
of moving an unperverted mind everywhere.' 
Without entering into the general subject here 
presented, which, like that we have already con- 
sidered, has been often and variously treated by 
others, let us attend for a moment to one or two 
mistakes which may be fatal to the diffusive 
spirit we would recommend. 

Early in this lecture, I represented an author 
as saying, in his dissatisfaction with the present, 
tliat he would appeal to other times to pass upon 
his merits. This he may reasonably do, if he 
simply means that he will vmit for the remote 
verdict. He has in mind some supposed, per- 
haps some real present hindrance to his success, 
which, in the course of years, may cease. But 
if he also means that he will lorite with refer- 
ence only to the coming ages, and of course 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 277 

watchfully exclude his contemporaries from his 
study and sympathy, we have a very different 
case before us. He brings into view the whole 
subject of preparing a work with a distinct, pos- 
itive regard to those who are to judge it, or, 
rather, whom he is willing to accept as judges. 
Here we have one manifestation of the exclusive 
spiri-t. In a different mood, he might resolve to 
write with sole reference to a particular state of 
society and public sentiment, to the distinctions 
of rank and education, to the tastes of his pecu- 
liar set, or even of some one valued literary 
friend. In every instance, the idea of writing 
broadly of and for mankind, or generously from 
his own nature, is carefully shut out. 

Here let it be conceded, however, that we 
should not condemn all attempts to fit one's self 
for certain classes of readers. An author, I pre- 
sume, may properly condescend to human infirm- 
ity for the sake of disarming the prejudices of 
custom and the hostility of ignorance, or of pre- 
paring men in still other ways for what may do 
them good. So, the untried, feeble capacities 
of children may be assisted by the kindly bend- 
ing of the greatest minds to meet their wants. 
The utmost prudence, and gifts hardly to be dis- 
tinguished from genius will be required so to 
perform these offices as not to excite resentment 
by a patronizing air of conciliation, or the con- 
tempt of the young by a weak prattle that infants 
24 



278 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 



might scorn even among themselves. But an 
author is not called upon to make sacrifices and 
concessions, he finds no countenance given to 
narrow self-adaptation, in the high departments 
of literature, where both writers and their critics 
are presumed to be of full strength and compe- 
tent judgment, and alike eager for good thoughts 
and patient of none other. Here, at least, he is 
expected to be independent, self-confiding, and 
as universal in his views and spirit as his genius 
will allow him to be. 

Our attention has just before been directed to 
some offended and perhaps self-sufficient author, 
who rejects the present and its judgments and 
resolves to write exclusively for readers of a 
future age. He requires a little notice, for his 
position is peculiar. What shall he do for that 
vague mass, the coming generations, to which he 
appeals ? He can never know what will meet 
their demands, supposing them to differ from the 
common demands of man's nature, as they exist 
in his own day or as he finds them in all the 
past. He can propose nothing definite to him- 
self when he speaks of a better time to come. 
Instead of beginning with men now, and prepar- 
ing them, however slowly, for his perfectly inde- 
pendent views ; — instead of trying to make his 
own age do something towards raising the ciiar- 
acter of its successors, and fitting them to judge 
the past, to judge even itself, — he presumes, 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 279 

without one fact to guide him, to divine what 
men will be, and what they will require and 
honor at some hidden, future day. 

Then consider the restraint which he lays upon 
his freedom and originality. He may ask how 
this can be when he has an unknown and un- 
limited world to expatiate in. I answer, — for 
that very reason. He has no objects, no bounda- 
ries, no outline, no guiding, strengthening, en- 
riching definiteness of purpose. He is in the 
midst of vacancy, and must fill it, if at all, not 
by invention but by laborious conjecture. If his 
fancy should be occupied with some ideal state 
of things, yet what he prepares for his imaginary 
readers will of course be ineffectual for the men 
and women who are to walk the earth, age after 
age. It may be well-wrought, artistically con- 
sidered, and pass for grotesque or fantastic 
fiction, but for nothing else. We need not fear 
that many writers, however fondly or queru- 
lously they may insist upon slighting the present 
and living only in the future, will practically 
carry out their idea in full ; but to any one, 
whose ambition inclines at all that way, it may 
be suggested that he will find, after abandoning 
universal humanity as it is, and rejecting the 
precious instruction which he had received from 
facts, that nothing remains for him to do but to 
make artificial conceits for the wonder of some 
far-off* generation in which he must be a 
stranger. 



280 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

In our dislike of a narrow, exclusive spirit, we 
should be careful lest we charge the most liberal 
minds with it ; for it must be owned that in 
their bold, engrossing speculations and their 
eager sympathy with a few kindred inquirers, 
they may seem to have passed within a circle 
from which the many are excluded. We may 
hear it objected to an author that he writes for a 
small class of favorites. But that the number is 
small may not be a matter of choice with him. 
He might be glad to have it otherwise. Still, if 
he cannot draw a crowd, let him not be called 
exclusive for doing his best to instruct those who 
can and will hear. So, as to his writing for his 
favorites or admirers only, — this may mean no 
more than that he writes for all who can under- 
stand and relish him ; and, by and by, these may 
be all the world. 

It is sometimes said of an eminent poet or 
philosopher that he forms a school for himself, 
at least to begin with, and that he aims directly 
at creating or developing in his disciples the 
power to go along with him ; — so much deeper 
does he enter into subjects than men have al- 
ready gone. This is in the main true ; and his 
course is a perfectly liberal one, and the only one 
that he could profitably take. He is forever 
educating men, either personally or through his 
followers, by making them better acquainted 
with their capacities and wants, or by appealing 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 281 

to their awakened consciousness for the recep- 
tion of truths which they may be said to have 
been waiting for. This is true not only of him, 
but, more or less, of all long-remembered writers ; 
and, in consequence of some accidental direction 
given to men's thoughts, an unexpected light 
may breqk upon them from writings which have 
been in their hands for ages. But let it be 
observed that the eminent poet or philosopher of 
whom we speak, (whether he has a school or 
not) addresses himself to the human soul every- 
where, and equally to the men of his own and 
of all time. He would have all men for his dis- 
ciples, that they may all have new ideas and 
pleasures. There is not one sign of his seeking 
to accommodate himself to their humors or pre- 
possessions. He might do so if he had a tem- 
porary purpose to gain ; but he cannot do so, 
when his aim is to pass beyond modes, tastes 
and questions of the day, and penetrate to the 
never-changing principles and the never-supplied 
wants of our nature; — when his office may be 
to displace darling errors and revolutionize long- 
seated opinions. 

Let us now observe the impression which an 
author makes, to learn whether it indicates a 
firm hold on public favor. We do not promise 
him, or require for him, in the distant, tranquil 
future, the bustling admiration of his contempo- 
24* 



282 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

raries ; but he must have qualities that will 
secure men's sober love and gratitude in their 
homes, in their solitary walks, in their studies, 
in the highest and the most familiar intercourse 
of social life, through all time, and, to a degree, 
in every reading country. To be immortal as a 
writer is more than to have a place among the 
customary tenants of large libraries, to be hidden 
perhaps for ages ; and, when brought to light, 
like an embalmed corpse of the East, for the ex- 
amination of the curious, — to be wondered at 
chiefly for having lasted so long. It is more 
than to have a deserved name for wisdom and 
genius, if these come not with a gracious as well 
as an awakening power. The writer, whom we 
presume to call immortal, must have life in the 
hearts, the experience and the wants of men. 
He must be essential to them. He must be a 
part of them, of their pride, their preferences, their 
opinions, their actions. He must hear on every 
side, forever, the voice of favor and thanks, and 
make it their honor more than his that he is still 
remembered and desired. 

To be at the full tide of popularity in one's 
own time is not in the least a sign, as many 
fear, that there will be an ebb in the next age ; 
though, probably, the surface will be less dis- 
turbed. A single generation may give clear 
evidence of what will be thought of a man for- 
ever. An individual may have a movement in 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 283 

his heart towards a man of genius, which will 
be answered by other hearts in all time. The 
man of genius himself may be inspired to pro- 
claim, without vanity, that he shall not wholly 
die. We naturally enough distrust present celeb- 
rity, because it may be owing to accident and 
perishable influences. For the same reason, we 
may not feel the slightest uneasiness at present 
neglect. It was no pledge, to be sure, and 
neither was it a hindrance of Milton's awful 
name in the world to-day, that he was passed 
by in his own time. This simply denoted what 
the time was. 

The mere amount of an author's contemporary 
popularity, of the excitement he produces, and 
of the importance attached to everything that 
relates to him, will give no sure indication of his 
future standing. It is the kind of estimation 
that he obtains, the kind of interest that he 
awakens, which is to settle the matter. Does 
he give us new impulses, new views, new men- 
tal exercises, which we receive as perfectly 
natural and as all our own ; and is this done in 
1 mguage and a style which our hearts tell us 
were suggested to him by his immediate expe- 
rience, — by the things he was saying? Are we 
sure that the agitation he produces is not a 
feverish or delirious transport, into which we are 
thrown by something that is startling merely 
because it is monstrous, or paradoxical, or asso- 



284 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

ciated with some urgent and transitory passions 
or prejudices of the day? "Whatever be the 
subject, — new or old, familiar or strange, — do 
we value the book first of all as a picture of an 
original mind, and for what that mind has done 
for the subject, rather than owes to it? Is the 
power we acknowledge and extol a generous and 
strengthening and kindly one to ourselves, en- 
couraging and elevating our faculties, and draw- 
ing us into near communion with itself, instead 
of reminding us of our inferiority ? 

After settling these and similar points con- 
cerning the impression he makes, — if we need 
any external evidence of his probable future po- 
sition, we may compare him with those writers 
who have long pleased and are considered as 
established in the world's memory, and see if he 
has their marks of health and long life. If we 
are satisfied in this, as well as in the other 
respects, that he has made out a good claim for 
himself, we may trust his name to the ' dim and 
perilous ' future, with as little fear as we should 
to a living friend. 

There may be times in which he is no longer 
popular. The larger part of his writings, though 
still kept in print by virtue of the precious resi- 
due and by the literary importance of his name, 
may fall into neglect and to most readers be un- 
known. Things for which he was once most 
valued may give place to new-discovered or 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 285 

more highly prized qualities in himself. Acci- 
dent may depress for a season the department 
of literature in which he excels, or other eminent 
men may walk in his steps and seem ready to 
shake his supremacy. But we know that he 
will not be ultimately superseded, or for any 
cause perish, as surely as we know that the 
frame of man's mind and the true fountains of 
his happiness will never be changed. 

I would not be thought to rely unreasonably 
upon the impression which a book makes, as an 
indication of its probable destiny. Clearly, this 
impression cannot be said to denote anything, at 
the beginning, but the opinion of an individual ; 
and this, we all know, may be indefinite ; it may 
suffer change; it may be misapprehended by 
others ; and, if understood aright, it may be 
resisted. Cannotsome method be devised of 
settling literary questions authoritatively ? If 
there are undisputed, material facts before us ; 
if there are unchangeable laws of taste, suscep- 
tible of definition and pretty direct application ; 
if the nature of man is ever essentially the same ; 
if the manifestations of genius have infallible 
signs ; if the slowly-established canons of criti- 
cism are always at hand and generally accepted ; 
— have we not here an apparatus for literary 
proof which may properly be brought to every 
case as it occurs, so that when a book is ready 
for publication, we may announce beforehand 



286 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

that it conforms to the law. and has all the 
known requisites for a classical position and 
repute ? 

Admitting all this, still how can the decree (if 
we may so call it) make impression less neces- 
sary ? The very rules and facts on which the 
critic relies were first brought to his notice by 
impression, and afterwards confirmed by its repe- 
tition ; and notwithstanding the enrolment of a 
book among the classics, it must still be read and 
judged by those who are summoned to acknowl- 
edge its claims. We cannot expect that a de- 
monstration of its merits will, of itself, establish 
them in the general mind, or that a work will be 
liked because we are told that there are the best 
of reasons why it should be. This is not the 
way of tlie reading world. Men of sense would 
laugh to be called on to praise and be charmed 
with a book upon trust. If they should like it 
upon trial, they may feel the strength of the 
proffered a priori grounds of admiration, or dis- 
cover satisfactory ones for themselves. 

It seems, then, that criticism has both its scien- 
tific and its popular side. This, however, does 
not imply hostility between different classes of 
readers ; for, though their methods may be some- 
what unlike, and though an accomplished student 
may arrive at higher, more accurate and more 
delicate results than a less cultivated inquirer, 
yet both (professedly at least) are aiming at the 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 287 

same thing, and, if true to their instincts and to 
undisputed principles, they will be mutual help- 
ers. A fair-minded common reader does not 
take up a book with the idea that he is to decide 
whether a critic's decree upon its merits is sound 
or not. He will, most probably, come to a de- 
cision upon this point before he has done ; but 
his immediate purpose is to learn something of 
the book from itself, and he goes to it with his 
heart open for its impression. If it pleases him, 
he in turn gives the writer all the help which the 
light and ardor of an excited mind can render, to 
complete the effect. It is peculiarly a solitary 
engagement. A great musical composition has 
a perpetual public exposition in some living 
artist. A play, designed for the stage, comes 
before us with the aids of action, costume and 
scenery to fulfil the dramatic intention. In 
both instances, illustration and excitement from 
abroad never fail to stimulate us to fill out the 
conception, in a way and measure we might not 
command by any effort of our own. Not so in 
the case before us. Here the reader is shut up 
with the author, to be himself, in some sense, 
interpreter, artist, player and judge. Critics and 
commentators may offer their assistance, and, in 
the hum of distant voices, he may catch the cur- 
rent opinions of the great world without ; yet he 
holds these equally subject with the author him- 
self to his separate judgment. An example Like 



288 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

this may show how popular insthicts, and the 
convictions of those who have, probably, no liter- 
ary ambition, are prepared to take part in critical 
decisions. We still leave to commanding names 
in literature their natural and necessary power 
with the public, their guidance and instruction 
of the less-favored, and especially the whole 
province of philosophical criticism. 

What is the next step ? Is the decree accept- 
ed ? Not absolutely. Perhaps we are inclined to 
wait a little. Tn not a few cases, we would 
have the impressions of readers brought together. 
We would have those of more than one genera- 
tion brought together. We demand a growing 
and accumulated testimony for a book. Not 
that the multitude of years and of witnesses 
adds a particle to its merits, or makes the earliest 
private decision in its favor more sound; not, 
perhaps, that we distrust in the least our single 
judgment; but because we wish, for all, the 
fullest evidence which can be had that men are 
right upon a point involving opinion. Besides, — 
those who are held to be the most competent 
critics, may have issued their decree against a 
book ; and yet, in spite of this decision, it has 
and bids fair to have its host of admirers, and, 
among them, readers who are far from being dull 
or uncultivated. Here the judge is warned by 
his inferiors to revise his opinion, to see if he has 
not overlooked important elements, and applied 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 289 

his system too strictly. He may even learn that 
some new law of taste has just been brought to 
light. While we admit then the advantage of 
having wise critics who deserve and inspire gen- 
eral respect and confidence, we should be pru- 
dent how we speak of their authoritative decrees, 
or of their power to settle literary questions, — 
except, perhaps, among themselves. 

If such be the spirit and direction of criticism, 
we have little reason to fear that it will become 
less generous and intelligent, or less mindful of 
principles. The hard, mechanical, unfruitful cer- 
tainty of a mere dictum^ however just, will lose 
something of its repulsiveness, when the active, 
cheerful inquiries of individual minds, with their 
various humors, prejudices, associations and 
habits, have also a work to do in interpreting 
and sustaining the law. This cheerful activity 
among the different classes of readers is, perhaps, 
the best effect of having critical awards depend 
somewhat on popular sentiment. We see that it 
was not to subject men to the pains of hopeless 
uncertainty, that so many things have been left 
open to opinion and controversy. If there are 
doubts, they give occasion for thinking. If there 
is diversity of opinion, there is also room and 
necessity for comparing opinions. If a false, 
narrow, or over-refined taste has perverted us, a 
wholesome self-distrust will be likely to grow out 
of our better acquaintance with one another. A 
25 



290 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

quiet change will go on in our views of things 
and in our habits of judging, without hurting our 
vanity or exposing us to a very distressing charge 
of inconsistency. Obstinacy 3delds a little. Lib- 
erality gains a little. We talk less of our neigh- 
bor's heresies, for we begin faintly to discern 
that some beauty is folded in them, which before 
we would not look into. We drop or retoach 
dogmas which we have long held sacred ; but 
we may, at the same time, discover that some of 
our opinions have more to support and commend 
them than we had suspected. We must not 
expect, or perhaps desire to bring all men to one 
way of thinking about books ; but it will be de- 
lightful to see them all good-humored, while 
they are busily speculating upon subjects that 
are worth their curiosity. 

It is little better than repetition to say that a 
book, well-established in public favor by impres- 
sion or opinion, is also established by the often 
unobserved yet unvarying principles of taste. 
The gifted and studious will discern, define and 
systematically apply these principles. Many, 
probably, will be content to receive them from 
such authority ; while a multitude of not less 
happy readers never get sight of them, and never 
seem to feel the want. Still, the decision, in 
which men generally rest at last, must be the 
fruit of obedience, whether conscious or not, to 
the same laws of the mind. 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 291 

This truth should be pressed with some ear- 
nestness, because its tendency is both to make 
the reader's literary appreciation habitually pru- 
dent, and to give a little confidence, at least, to 
opinions which are just beginning to take form 
and prove their strength. It may gratify him to 
have some degree of assurance that his most 
headlong delight, or his instant condemnation 
proceeds from impulses, which are not wholly 
casual and fleeting. Moreover, he may so ac- 
custom himself to apply the principles of criti- 
cism, that he will scarcely be conscious of doing 
it ; and hence he need not fear breaking or dis- 
turbing the easy, joyous current of ideas, which 
depends, not a little, upon his surrendering him- 
self, for the time, to the writer. 

Having considered the world as sitting in 
judgment upon those who may one day be its 
idols, let us pass to the author's own view of 
his chances among men, at a period when he 
can no longer urge a word for himself, other 
than what remains upon his silent pages. 

Among the poets who have ventured to fore- 
tell their immortality, the tone of the prediction 
is various, though rarely worthy of the men. 
The attempt itself (always of more than doubt- 
ful prudence and delicacy) is seldom to be valued 
so much for the proof it gives of a noble self- 
confidence or infallible inspiration, as of the 



292 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

poet's sympathy with his race, and of something 
characteristic, — it may be something infirm, — 
in his temper. 

Horace, in sounding his distant praises, rejects, 
with dignified exultation, all funeral laments and 
honors for one who is never to die; — yet he can 
talk of building a fame to outlast stone and 
brass ; to endure as long as the sacred rites of 
Rome ; to be acknowledged not only in Apulia, 
but in Africa, Spain, Gaul, on the shores of the 
Bosphorus, &c. That a man so considered, so 
known, for strong sense and a shrewd, merry 
perception of folly, should seriously fall into a 
strain like this, may seem a little remarkable 
even to those who are most captivated by his 
diction and verse, and most willing to take, as 
nearly as they can, a Roman's view of self-com- 
mendation, and of the proper images for setting 
forth the stability of lyric renown. Still it must 
be acknowledged that in the two odes which 
celebrate the extent and permanence of his glory, 
the predictions, in some points, fall far short of 
the facts, and in none have they failed. Let the 
poet have the full advantage of this in extenua- 
tion of his boasting. 

What a contrast have we in the modest, 
courtly aspiration of Pope, who, if we may be- 
lieve him, would be satisfied that his 'little bark' 
should keep company with Bolingbroke's first- 
rate, on its way along the never-ending stream. 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 293 

Who thinks of the convoy now ? Who doubts 
which of the two is most in debt to the other for 
still being afloat ? 

Milton sings rapturously of fame in Lycidas ; 
and, when a much older man, he presents the 
subject carefully in many of its aspects.* But 
with what sobriety does he approach his own 
expectations, — with what dignity, — yet with a 
humility that affects us almost like sadness. 
When little more than thirty, he finds a place, in 
his controversy with the prelates, to state his 
preference for another manner of writing. In 
this well-known passage,! he announces his 
motive and preparation for undertaking some 
important poetical work ; but we are concerned 
only with the spirit in which he contemplates 
his future name. 

* Although a poet,' he says, ' soaring in the 
high region of his fancies, with his garland and 
singing robes about him, might, without apology, 
speak more of himself than I mean to do,' &c. 

Then he passes to the literary exercises (chiefly 
in verse) of his first years, in which ' it was found 
that the style, by certain vital signs it had, was 
likely to live.' Still later, in the private acade- 
mies of Italy, the fastidious scholars of the coun 
try gave unlooked-for praise to the pieces which 

* Paradise Regained. Book III. 

t See ' The Reason of Church GoTernment Urged against 
Prelaty.' Book II. 

25* 



294 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

the young Englishman submitted, according to 
the custom there, as ' some proof of his wit and 
reading.' Hence he is emboldened to hope for 
higher things. 

' I began,' he proceeds, ' thus far to assent both 
to them and divers of my friends here at home, 
and nqt less to an inward prompting which now 
grew daily upon me, that by labor and intent 
study, which I take to be my portion in this life, 
joined wdth the strong propensity of nature, I 
might perhaps leave something so written to 
after times, as they should not willingly let it 
die.' 

In such terms does this firm-tempered young 
man speak of himself, after he had written Lyci- 
das, L' Allegro, 11 Penseroso and Comus. In 
advanced years, and in his great work, he thinks 
it enough, when placing himself with the blind 
bards of old, to say, — 

* Equalled witli me in fate. 
So were I equalled with them in renown.' 

And now, with our knowledge of the facts, 
we may proceed one step farther and imagine a 
writer looking into the future, to see what awaits 
him there. The revelation will often be very 
strange to him. He was prepared for times 
when his name should be clouded and his in- 
fluence obstructed ; and equally for the day of 
his restored and perhaps heightened favor; but 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 295 

the course and complexion of his fortunes are not 
altogether what he had looked for. At times he 
is ready to exclaim : — 

' Visions of glory, spare my acliing sight ; 
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul; ' — 

but the day may be near when he will have 
much to vex and something to amuse him in the 
homage he receives and in the questions which 
are raised about him and his works. He must 
console himself with the thought that nearly all 
which he sees and hears is a proof of his contin- 
ued, perhaps of his increasing importance, and 
of the almost personal attachment that is felt 
towards him by all orders of men. Let us recall 
some of his experiences. 

He has passed among his countrymen, and in 
all nations for many ages, as an indipidual, with 
a name in every man's mouth, with cities ready 
to fight for the honor of giving him birth, and 
with the credit of being the author of distinctly 
marked and most popular works, which have 
been the origin of a principal department of poe- 
try, and its model ever since. Yet he is now 
told that there has all along been a great mistake 
in this belief. He is no longer to be a person, a 
unit, with a lawful name, but a set of ballad- 
singers, each w~ith his own story upon the same 
great national subject. 

He has written plays which have given him 



296 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME, 

the first name in poetry. Hence an ample biog- 
raphy must be invented for him, since there is 
scarcely anything to say from records or trust- 
worthy tradition. He is not denied his rightful 
name ; but there are undecided contests how it 
should be spelt ; for he and the family seem to 
have cared little for the matter, and the people 
of his time as little for orthography generally. 
All this serves both him and us for amusement. 
But graver considerations are to come before 
him. He died without publishing his writings. 
They are in the hands of others and the property 
of others, and have been subject to maiming and 
corruption during many years of theatrical ser- 
vice. At length a posthumous edition appears, 
and, as we presume, a very careless one, for we 
are often perplexed for a meaning. Hence spring 
up a class of critics, especially devoted to him, — 
some of them eminent for general ability and 
scholarship, as well as for acquaintance with the 
early times of the country and the now some- 
what antiquated speech. Their office is to settle 
the text and explain obscurities. But, by some 
ill-fortune, the larger part of them have been the 
most captious, assuming and quarrelsome set of 
men that ever claimed to be literary judges, or 
judges in any question. His mere name, — a 
fountain of love to common men, — is to them a 
war-cry. A new reading, or the discovery of an 
old copy with alleged contemporary corrections, 



PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 297 

is received as a personal wrong, an invasion of 
some private right, and very soon the world is in 
arms. A pretty spectacle for a benign spirit, 
long withdrawn from our strifes, and who all the 
time hears himself hailed, with one voice, as the 
benefactor and glory of his race. Last of all, he 
sees that his plays, so far as representation is 
concerned, are undergoing hideous changes to 
adapt them to modern ideas ; though some still 
think that in nothing is he more perfect, than in 
managing the course of the action for the highest 
stage effect. This adaptation most commonly 
consists in omissions of scenes and persons. But 
this is the least of his wrongs ; for sometimes 
parts of different dramas are united by the aid 
of interpolation ; sometimes a play is pieced 
with wholly foreign additions ; and sometimes 
the plot is so transformed that the catastrophe is 
quite another thing. 

He has been widely known as the explorer 
and interpreter of his native tongue, as an ob- 
server of human life and expositor of dnty, as a 
biographer, as the bold and successful former of 
a style safe only for himself, and, finally, as a 
dictator in literary criticism. The light has not 
wholly passed from any of the monuments of 
his genius and wisdom. But it comes to his ears 
that he is to be better and longer known for an 
accident in his history than for the deliberate 
fruits of his studies. He is to be remembered 



/ 



298 PERMANENT LITERARY FAME. 

chiefly for the record of his conversation, made 
up by his extraordinary and equally immortal 
biographer. He cannot reasonably complain that 
he has unexpectedly surpassed himself; though, 
upon this very subject of a man's books and con- 
versation, he has left the dictum^ — 'Madam, the 
best part of an author Mrill always be found in 
his writings.' The wonder to him and all of us 
must be, not that his conversation was so mem- 
orable, — for we know that it was, in no small 
degree, his ambition and care, — but that such a 
record of it should have been made, and with 
such a bearing upon his reputation. 

If we should bring into one view the fortunes 
of still other writers, who are considered as the 
most prosperous among the immortals, the lowly 
might be brought to think it better for a man to 
sleep quietly when he has no more to do with 
the earth in the be 3y. But they will not per- 
suade the soaring spirit that it is not worth 
ambition to be a great powder in the world, ages 
after one's burial. 



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